Rallentando Deep Within
by ChibiAnimeFreak
Summary: All his life, Lovino has pushed down his insecurities, only expressing himself through his music. But when he enters high school as a freshman, it may get harder to keep is feelings locked up, especially with a certain Spaniard running around trying to open him up.
1. Piano

_Before beginning, I just want to add a few notes which regard the entire expanse of this story. Basically, it's just so I can justify a few of the decisions I made in the planning, so please take your time to read them as they'll be short. Ish._

_1) I chose an instrument for Lovino. Now, usually I don't like specific labels like this too much, but it _is_ necessary for part of the storyline, so bare with it if you don't like it. And, as a side note, I don't play the instrument—or at least not well—so I have no bias towards it. On the same note, I'm also not an expert in the inner workings of it, so I may get some things wrong once and a while, and I apologize._

_2) There are some things that may seem a bit over-angsty and over thought out by Lovino, but that is because he is a teenager. I can say from the personal experience of being a teenager at this very moment that this is how I feel teenagers as a whole take things. I feel the fact that we have the ability and brain mass to process what is going around us, but not the maturity to deal with it and put it in the grander perspective of things ends up making the littlest things seem like an overly big deal. Again, I apologize if it gets exaggerated at times, and please tell me if it gets overwhelmingly so._

_3) Please do not flame this chapter, as Antonio isn't exactly the ideal person yet, but don't worry, the wonderful Spamano fluff and love will come with time. A lot of time. But hey, give Toni a break; he needs to break down Lovi's walls, and we all know how hard that is._

_4) Yes, they are twins in this. I know they aren't really, but this makes the idea I have in my head more possible, so please go with it?_

_On a lighter and less serious note, please enjoy and leave your feedback~!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, nor any of them used in this story._

o.0.O.0.o

_**La vita rimane la cosa più bella che ho**_

o.0.O.0.o

"Where the fuck is that bastard?" Lovino crossed his arms, scowling angrily at the hallway packed full of freshmen and seniors searching for their matches. It was crowded in the stifling passage, and Lovino was getting more and more irked by the second; he didn't like people to begin with, and their annoying tendencies seemed to only be heightened in this situation.

"Ve~. I'm sure he's looking for us, too, Lovi," Feliciano assured his twin brother, looking over the throng of students as well, though with more of a curious, airheaded gaze than a searching one.

It was the high school orientation, a taxing ordeal to begin with, and Lovino's seeming inability to find his and Feliciano's "senior buddy" or whatever the hell they were called wasn't helping any.

The school set up the Senior-Freshman Buddy program somewhere close to ten years ago. Since the school itself was rather large and, as such, fairly confusing, they had initiated the program with the hopes of making the first day of school easier for incoming students, though whether or not it was effective was debatable if you asked one Lovino Vargas.

The basic idea of the program was to pair up a freshman and senior for the orientation. The senior was then to show his or her underclassman around the school, visiting the freshman's locker, classes and the other general facilities of the school. The senior was also supposed to be available to help the freshman at any other point during the year as well, but Lovino highly doubted he would take advantage of that.

"Well the fucker had better get here soon or I'm leaving," Lovino grunted, tapping his foot on the tiled floor impatiently. He hadn't wanted to come in the first place, but their grandfather had made the older Vargas twin attend, sending him a strict look as he left for the adult's portion of the orientation in the auditorium, and he wasn't a person you wanted to cross. Well, not if you were Lovino, at least. He seemed to be kind enough to others, though the seemingly caring grandfather tended to have an especially harsh side just for his oldest grandson. Or so it seemed to aforementioned grandson most of the time.

"Look!" Feliciano pointed across the hallway.

Lovino's gaze followed his brother's arm. Across the hall, looking over the crowd with just as much a searching gaze as the two of them, was an average-sized brunette holding up a sign with the name "Vargas" written over it in big block letters.

The sign was purposely vague: the freshman class was larger than the senior one, which meant the Vargas brothers had been assigned the same senior as their guide for the night. How that was a smart idea, Lovino had no idea. His and Feliciano's schedules were very different, so there was almost no chance of both of them getting to see all their classrooms in the short time period.

"Come on." Lovino grabbed Feliciano's hand and led the two of them across the room, nosing his way through the slowly thinning swells of excited people to reach the lone teen.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. That was the name of their guide for the night according to the letter they had gotten in the mail a month ago. He was Spanish of some sort, if his name was anything to go by, though it was uncertain whether that meant "from Spain" Spanish or "from Latin America" Spanish. Whatever the case, Antonio looked it. He was tanned deeply and beautifully, and Lovino somehow couldn't imagine the existence of tan lines anywhere on his body. His windswept chocolate hair fell in perfect disorder, giving him a just-climbed-out-of-bed look without it being garish, and his emerald eyes crinkled as he smiled, which must have been often based on the way it seemed so natural on the soft features.

To put it simply, he was drop dead gorgeous.

Lovino's heartbeat thumped a little faster in his chest as they approached, his grip on Feliciano's hand loosening as his mind wandered elsewhere. Partially freed of his brother's harsh grasp, Feliciano wriggled his hand out completely and bounded the last few feet himself, landing enthusiastically in front of the green-eyed seventeen-year-old.

"Feliciano Vargas reporting for duty~!" he cheered airily, hand popping up in a facsimile of a salute. With the wrong hand, no less.

Antonio blinked, looking more than a little surprised at the sudden appearance of one of his missing freshmen, but only hesitated a moment before a huge grin appeared on his face. "_Hola_, Feliciano. I'm Antonio," he greeted, the tones of his voice softened and made sultry by the backdrop of an accent, most likely Spanish.

Lovino scowled as he came up beside his brother, trying without much success to dissipate the blush that had spread across his face. He crossed his arms defensively. He would not allow himself to like this boy, sexy accent or not. It simply was not an option.

Despite his determination, Lovino's stomach did a little flip as the boy turned his green eyes on him, smiling still. "And you must be—"

"Lovino," he grunted, still frowning heavily. His already sour mood only worsened when Antonio's smile faltered slightly. Within seconds it was back to full intensity, though, Lovino noted dejectedly, it was no longer pointed towards him.

"Well, now that we know each other why don't we get started with the tour?" Antonio asked rhetorically, clasping his hands together, smile never leaving his face. When Feliciano nodded enthusiastically eyes shining a golden brown, Antonio seemed to be even more focused on him, and a small half squeal, half shout of "how cute~!" escaped his mouth.

Lovino rolled his eyes at the display, ignoring the pang in his chest as his brother gained the spotlight. Swallowing his feelings, Lovino stepped forward so he was closer to the two cheery students. "Are we going to start this fucking tour already or do I have to wait for you two cheerful bastards to stop cooing at each other?" he asked.

Antonio blinked at the older twin as if he had forgotten he was there for a moment—which wasn't unlikely. Antonio chuckled nervously. "I guess you're right. Do you want me to start with your classes or just show you around in general?" he questioned the two brothers.

"Like it really fucking matters," Lovino muttered, cutting his gaze to the side. Here he was, trying to get into the good graces of this teen and yet he was ruining it all with his usual rudeness. The fact that he felt the regret to begin with was odd in itself, for normally he wouldn't think twice about letting a swear or two slip, as it helped to drive unwanted people off; most were labeled as such anyways, so his sailor's mouth seemed to have gotten stuck on him at some point in the past.

It had been his way for a long time to thrive off loneliness, avoiding situations where he would have to be in contact with someone for too long. That allowed relationships, and relationships opened the opportunity for hurt. Too often the ones he thought most loved him had abandoned him—his parents being only one example—so he had hardened his heart to match the hate those around him seemed to radiate. It was a vicious cycle; the more he turned his back on people, the more they despised him, giving him even more reason to shrink further into himself. He was content to stay within it, though. _It suits me_, he would think, ignoring the twang of sadness that would rush through him at the thought.

"Lovi, be nice~," Feliciano whined, snapping Lovino back to the present. His golden—so innocently, _perfectly_ golden—eyes shone with unshed tears of distress as he acted less than half his age, as per usual, winning the affections of anyone with a love of children.

Though it did soften him, Lovino was used to his brother's sad face, the one the unknowingly manipulative Italian used to win over numerous adults, so he was easily able to push down the small bit of guilt that formed whenever he was mean to his brother, whether purposefully or not.

"Like hell I'll be nice to this unhelpful bastard," Lovino groused, gesturing offhandedly to the older boy. When he was regarded with only silence, he risked glancing up to Antonio, only to find the Spaniard directing a disapproving look at the underclassman. Lovino felt regret send his stomach churning unpleasantly, and looked down to the floor. Sure, let the hot senior like his brother better. Why not give him even more reason to? It's not like he had a chance anyway, not with his twin there.

When Feliciano opened his mouth to reply, looking even more distressed than earlier, Antonio interrupted the possible fight, saying cheerfully, "I guess we'll look at your schedules and I can show you the café and stuff as we go by them." He chuckled nervously upon seeing Lovino's glare, averting his emerald eyes from the olive ones of the Italian, and instead directing them towards the younger twin. "Feliciano, do you have yours?"

Lovino tried not to notice how he was pointedly ignored.

The underclassman cheered instantly, the most likely faux tears drying back up. They appeared again seconds later, however, as he seemed to realize something. He sniffled. "V-ve, I forgot it …"

Lovino rolled his eyes, not at all surprised. He was even less surprised considering that, knowing already how forgetful his brother was, he had grabbed it himself on their way out the door.

"Here, _idiota_," Lovino sighed, exasperated, and searched his pockets. Skirting passed the one he knew to be his own, Lovino handed it to his expectant brother, who then handed it to Antonio in turn. Lovino watched as he unfolded the brightly colored paper once it was handed to him and examined it for room numbers and familiar teachers.

"Might as well start with first period," Antonio mumbled under his breath, more to himself than the brothers. Suddenly, he popped his head up, grinning cheerfully. "Come on, Feli." He sent Lovino a backwards glance as he turned to walk down the hallway, an unidentifiable look on his face as he caught Lovino's eyes. "Lovino," Antonio added as an afterthought. He directed his gaze back to the front as soon as he was sure Lovino was following as well, placing a hand on Feliciano's shoulder and walking down the hall, leading the cheery Italian along.

Lovino followed after, frown morphing into a bitter look.

As the trio traveled the numerous hallways of the school, Antonio and Feliciano in front, chatting amicably with each other and Lovino trailing behind, Lovino examined the way the school was set up. He knew they wouldn't get to his classes tonight save for the cafeteria and gym, so he allowed himself the liberty of ignoring the Spaniard and Italian ahead of him and instead focused on how he would figure out where his classes were, pretending not to notice how Antonio constantly glanced across at Feliciano, eyes roving over him with more than just mild interest.

Figured. When he liked someone—and he knew he was attracted to Antonio at this point—that person liked Feliciano. He wasn't an idiot, nor was he blinded by attraction. He saw the way Antonio looked at Feliciano with adoration and immediate liking. It was just a matter of time before he was following the cute Italian around like a dog.

Lovino expected no less, really. It wouldn't have been the first time Feliciano had taken away something dear to Lovino. In fact, it was probably as far from the first time as could be. Lovino knew he wouldn't fight it, though. "Throwing tantrums" as his grandfather so eloquently put it had only proven to make things worse in the past.

Lovino continued on this path of thought, and it was only when he heard his name in the conversation he tuned back in.

" . . . my favorite is art, but Lovi likes band best," Feliciano said, finishing some long-winded explanation Lovino had missed the beginning of.

For the first time in the last fifteen minutes or so, Antonio turned back to Lovino, an expression of mild interest on his face. "What instrument do you play, Lovino?"

Antonio's green eyes were curious, bright and unrelenting, but Lovino didn't dare get his hopes up. As soon as he answered, the older boy would go back to his much more interesting twin brother, surely. Regardless, Lovino muttered, "Oboe."

As expected, Antonio's smile again faltered, and a mystified look appeared on his face. "Ah," he said.

Lovino recognized the response well. It occurred every time he mentioned what he enjoyed most, something most would never claim to: playing oboe. It was an odd instrument, an unusual one, and one that most though was just plain weird and not worth knowing more about. When they heard of how Lovino played it, they felt the same as they did about the instrument: maybe wondering, but utterly uninterested.

Lovino was used to it, though, and it came as no surprise when Antonio returned his eyes to Feliciano again, look gone. "So what are you taking for art this year?"

"Advanced Drawing and Advanced Painting," Feliciano replied.

Antonio's eyes widened considerably, obviously impressed. "I thought you needed recommendations from other classes to get into those!"

Lovino hunched more, hands in his pockets, as Feliciano explained the exception the school had made for him. The brilliant Feliciano, unrivaled prodigy painter and overall artist. The school couldn't have _not_ made an exception for the one and only.

Lovino sighed, shaking his head. No, he didn't want to blame Feliciano for it all. He used to, back when they were younger. Dear Feliciano got the biggest presents, he got the biggest slice of cake, he was coddled, he was praised; all of that only Feliciano seemed to receive, and it only served to make Lovino bitter.

It wasn't really Feliciano's fault, though, as Lovino had come to realize in his more recent teenage years. Upon introspection, Lovino found he was simply too horrible a person, too abrasive in general, to really ever dream of being on par with his brother. It was a bitter sense of self-loathing and outright selfishness that kept him where he was, stuck in his rut of hate directed towards himself and outwards. He didn't want to change, though, didn't want to be saved or anything ridiculous like that. He definitely didn't need saving; he was comfortable in his little bubble of depression.

They finally ended at the auditorium just as the hour was up. As Lovino had previously divined, they hadn't made it to a single of his own classes, nor had he been asked about any of them besides the band incident. Though, he thought optimistically—a rare feat for him, no doubt—he did know now where the cafeteria, auditorium, gym, music rooms, and his locker were.

"And this is the finale of our tour," Antonio exclaimed amiably, emerald eyes crinkling as he grinned, gesturing hugely to the entrance of the fair-sized auditorium. As he spoke, the doors burst open, and out filed the parents and guardians of the various incoming students, looking as bored as the students themselves would once school began.

"Ve~. _Grazie_, Antonio~," Feliciano exclaimed, latching himself onto Antonio in a hug.

"No problem, Feli," Antonio said, wrapping his arms around the supposedly cuter Italian in return and petting his head like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. "I hope I get to see you during school again. We have the same lunch wave, so I expect a full-on Feliciano greeting!"

Feliciano giggled, nodding in agreement before catching sight of his grandfather and hopping off to join him, turning halfway to give a last wave to the older boy.

Lovino turned to join them, muttering a muted "thanks" under his breath, but was stopped by Antonio's voice.

"Bye, Lovino. Hope to see you soon." Lovino froze in place. It was unexpected to say the least, and, when he turned his head to look there was, to his surprise, no hint of sarcasm in Antonio's lustrous smile, but rather it was earnest, albeit a tad less so than when directed at Feliciano.

"Y-yeah," he finally choked out, cheeks heating slightly.

"Lovino!"

The Italian turned his head to the call, seeing his grandfather looking at him with an annoyed stare, obviously getting impatient.

"_Ciao_," Lovino mumbled before speeding away towards the waiting man and teen, head bowed and heart trying not to lighten.

The jingle of Antonio's laugh followed him out the door, and didn't leave his mind even as he drifted off to sleep that night.

o.0.O.0.o

_Random note: I will always translate the song lyrics from the beginning and say where they're from. And no, they will not always be in Italian._

_La vita rimane la cosa più bella che ho (Life remains the most beautiful thing that I have) –"E Da Qui" by Nek._

_I don't know how much I like this chapter. I feel like it's very awkward and odd and . . . I don't know exactly. But anyway, leave me your thoughts and critiques!_

_Chibianimefreak out~ _


	2. DS al Fine

_This one's even longer than the first, but I hope it's better. It took me a while to write, cus I wasn't sure what I wanted to happen in it exactly, but here you are~! I hope Antonio doesn't seem to familiar to the Italian twins…? Idk… enjoy~!_

_Oh, and I may go back and edit this in the morning if I remember/feel like it, cus I'm too lazy to do it now, and I promised myself and others updates every week. Meh._

_Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine and, sadly, never will be. T_T_

o.0.O.0.o

_**Pero vuoi vivere perche chi non vive lascia il segno di più grande errore**_

o.0.O.0.o

Lovino _had_ been having a good day. Of course, as most of those go—though rare they were—it slowly turned rotten.

It all started with a phone call, just a simple ringing of the ancient telephone hanging off the wall in their kitchen. Lovino was home alone, as Feliciano was out with his friend Kiku—the small, rather timid Japanese boy who lived down the street with his much older half-brother, Yao—and as such Lovino was forced to answer the obnoxiously loud atrocity himself.

"_Pronto?_" Lovino nearly growled into the device, extremely annoyed. He had been taking one of his few chances at peace to practice his music and was beyond anxious to return to the embrace of his music.

"_Hola_, it's Antonio." Lovino groaned inwardly at that. He hadn't seen the upperclassman since the orientation three days ago, and was hoping he wouldn't have to see or hear from him until at least after school started, and Lovino wouldn't mind waiting even longer. Antonio continued, obviously unaware of Lovino's inner cursing, "I was wondering if Feliciano was free today? There's this new ice cream shop open in town and—"

"He's out," Lovino replied gruffly, stomach churning unpleasantly at the sound of the fluid, accent-tinged voice made slightly grainy by the phone, no matter the fact that the boy had called to speak to Feliciano instead. He felt his cheeks burning, and swallowed heavily, shifting his weight onto one leg and crossing his free hand across his chest.

"Ah, I see." There was a slight pause. "Is this Lovino?"

"The fuck does it matter?" Lovino snapped, secretly elated Antonio had remembered him.

Antonio chuckled lightly. "I'll take that as a 'yes' then. Would you like to—"

"I'm not gonna be your fucking second choice, damn it," Lovino cut him off, sure his face was glowing with an equal brilliance to the sun. He wasn't sure whether to feel glad Antonio wanted to take him out, or angry he came second to his brother. He went with anger.

"I guess that's fair," Antonio said, voice sounding oddly level despite the wrath emanating off Lovino, through the phone lines, and straight to him. The Spaniard hummed thoughtfully as Lovino seethed. "Then how about we go somewhere _else_?"

Lovino blinked, his anger forgotten. "W-what?" He winced at the stutter, an old speech defect he had thought he had rid of years ago. Lovino quickly attempted to compose himself, saying, "I-I mean . . . that doesn't make it any different, bastard."

"I guess not, huh?" Antonio sighed. "Well, can you have Feliciano call me when he gets home, then?"

Lovino muttered his consent, suddenly wishing he wasn't so cowardly and had instead agreed to go with Antonio, no matter how horribly it would have ended. "If that's it, then goodbye."

"No—wait—!"

Lovino stopped halfway from hanging the phone up. "What?" he hissed, placing the receiver back at his ear.

"And, Lovino, if you change your mind, give me a ring," Antonio said.

"Like hell," Lovino grunted, face flaming.

"Just keep it in mind, okay? _Adios!_"

Before Lovino could give another biting reply, he heard the click signifying the end of the call on Antonio's end. Growling in frustration and embarrassment, he slammed the phone onto its holder and stomped back into the living room, where his instrument was waiting to be played.

Later that day, Feliciano arrived home, ranting about how everything him and Kiku had done. Lovino reluctantly put away the oboe as his brother went on and on about how Kiku had shown him this new book that wasn't really a book because it had pictures of funny people doing cool stuff and—

"Feliciano, please just shut up," Lovino snapped, the earlier phone call still grating on his nerves. He didn't like to take his anger out on his brother, especially when Feliciano wasn't doing anything wrong, but at the moment he didn't really care. Once and a while it felt good to get his frustrations out, and if Feliciano had to suffer for a few brief moments to prevent his twin's much longer anguish, then that was find by Lovino.

"Did something happen, Lovi~?" Feliciano knit his eyebrows in worry. Somehow, the younger, more naïve of the two twins always seemed to be able to see past Lovino's exterior and glance at his true intentions, though they were still slightly obscured by the older Italian's high walls. Lovino both hated and loved him for it.

Lovino sighed. Why did he always end up regretting hurting Feliciano, no matter how justified? "Nothing, _Fratello_, don't worry about it." He closed his case, snapping the two clasps together with a satisfying click.

Feliciano stared at the leather case with a curious look. "Could you play for me some time, Lovi?" He glanced back to Lovino, hope shining in his golden eyes.

Lovino scowled, ignoring him. Instead, he said, "Antonio called for you. Asked me to tell you to call him back."

"Oh? What did he want~?"

"Just to hang out with you. Annoying bastard, ruining my alone time," he grumbled, trudging up the stairs to deposit his instrument and, most likely, himself in his room for the afternoon.

Of course, being the annoyingly polite bastard he was, Feliciano called Antonio as soon as Lovino left the room, which somehow led to Antonio ending up at the Italians' home watching crappy cooking shows with Feliciano.

Lovino could hear them chatting about the various recipes and cooks as he laid on the bed in his room, hands resting beneath his head, feet flat against the surface of the mattress so his knees popped up under the fluffy duvet. He wasn't doing anything in particular, but rather simply staring at the ceiling, studying the pasty white surface with nothing more than a disinterested, though maybe slightly pensive, face. School was starting the next day, so he was trapped in that odd in phase of anxiety right before something big and new is coming, but when you can't do anything more to prepare for it. Because of this, there really wasn't much for him to be doing in the first place, and he certainly wasn't in the mood for socializing, so he was content to lie as he was and relax with an oddly calm mind, considering the circumstances.

Lovino sighed, grinding his palms into his eye sockets as if that would somehow eliminate the sound of the two amicable teens having a blast without Lovino there to ruin their fun. Because, surely, were the much grumpier, abrasive of the twins to be in their company as well, their fun would be cut exponentially. Either that or he would go ignored, though neither case was really a desirable one.

Despite his rather pessimistic attitude towards pretty much everything that involved himself or could involve himself, a small part of Lovino still hoped for a more fairytale-esque scenario. This dangerous portion of his mind held dreams and possibilities so unrealistic they couldn't even really be called possibilities, but were more akin to fantasies. They were dangerous for him, implanting false hopes into his mind, false phantasmal dreams there only to trick his mind.

Lovino groaned and threw his hands off his face, blinking away the stars dotting his vision and rolling onto his side as soon as his vision cleared. He curled up comfortably and faced the plaster wall with an anguished look, Antonio's tinkling laugh drifting through his opened door. He knew he wouldn't go down until he was sure the attractive Spaniard had left—he was too much of a coward to do such a thing, so there was no chance of his dreams becoming anything near reality. Not that there was in the first place.

Eventually, the sound of the TV was cut off, and the voices faded away. Antonio had finally gone home. Lovino breathed out a sigh of relief, ignoring the twinge of regret filling his body. With the presence of the older teen now gone, he was able to relax more, falling into a peaceful slumber.

A few hours later, though it only felt like a few minutes, Lovino awoke to a sudden dip in his bed. Hazel eyes snapped open immediately, hackles raised. His opened eyes met nothing but the blank wall, but as he sat up, grogginess fading, he finally saw the source of his newly awakened state.

Curly brown hair, obnoxiously beautiful grin, masculine-yet-oddly-intoxicating scent: there was no doubt, Antonio was still at his house, and, not only that, but he was sitting on Lovino's bed.

Lovino groaned, stomach churning uncomfortably as he dropped his head into his hands, pulling his knees up to better support himself. _That bastard sure is good at ruining any alone time I have..._

"Ah, you're awake."

Lovino lifted his head to meet the smiling face of Antonio turned to face him. He tried and failed to calm his heart after being exposed to the blinding grin, ducking his head back down into his hands. "What are you doing here?" he mumbled into them.

"Here as in your house, or here as in your room?" Antonio questioned jokingly.

"Both," Lovino growled, raising his head to glare at Antonio. He wasn't normally at his most patient after being woken up, and the Spaniard certainly wasn't helping any.

"Well, I'm here because Feli called and—"

"I already fucking knew that, I could hear you two downstairs earlier," Lovino hissed. "Why are you _still_ here?"

Antonio perked up. "Oh, well your grandfather called and told Feli he wouldn't make it home for dinner tonight—"

"Big surprise," Lovino muttered under his breath, turning his head to stare steadfastly at the wall. He resolved not to look at Antonio: he was too distracting.

"—so he invited me to stay and eat with you guys," Antonio finished cheerfully, either not hearing Lovino's comment or choosing to ignore it.

Lovino ground his teeth in annoyance. Feliciano _would_ invite the bastard to stay when they were home alone. Damn it.

"And why are you in my room?" Lovino spat.

"Feliciano told me to get you for dinner, but you were just sleeping so peacefully I couldn't wake you."

Lovino looked back up to Antonio, taking in the man's earnest gaze. He blushed deeply, and hated himself for doing so. His self-hate was only made worse when moments later, Antonio continued, "When you sleep, you lose that sour expression you always wear. You look a lot like Feliciano that way." He smiled. "And much cuter~!"

Lovino's eyes widened with hurt for only a second before he caught himself from displaying his disappointment. In a halfhearted attempt to appear unaffected by the comment, Lovino muttered in as much as a deadpan as he could, "So that's why you were staring at me like a pervert."

Antonio pouted. "I'm a pervert for letting you rest?"

"Bastard," Lovino said, "you're a pervert for trying to get into my brother's pants."

A slight rosy tint rose on the Spaniard's cheeks, and his eyes widened, showing off more of their bright emerald interior, but he also looked slightly hurt, something Lovino certainly didn't expect. He threw his hands up in an "I surrender" way, and said, "I just want to get to know Feliciano better!"

Lovino simply stared, unimpressed by the obviously under-exaggerated answer.

"Fine, maybe I'm kind of hoping he ends up liking me as more than a friend, but I don't want to just 'get into his pants', I want to know him," Antonio explained, giving Lovino a desperate look, as if he really wanted the Italian to believe him.

Lovino wanted to disregard him, to think he was lying, if only because then he'd have some reason to dislike Antonio, a legitimate one, but he found he couldn't. And he hated it. It would have been so much easier for him if he could manage to hate the Spaniard, or even to dislike him, but—besides the minor fact that Antonio liked his younger brother—he put off nothing that Lovino could pinpoint and narrow in on. There _was_ no bad quality for him to base his immediate dislike on, and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. How ironic; maybe it wouldn't be the boy's faults that caused Lovino's inherent dislike, but rather how perfect he was.

"But anyway," Antonio said decidedly, "why don't we go down to eat now? I don't know about you, but I'm starved!" To emphasize his point, his stomach gave off a low rumble, and Antonio chuckled embarrassedly. "Guess my body thinks so, too, huh?"

"Whatever." Lovino rolled his eyes and crawling off the bed, avoiding the Spaniard and all thoughts of exactly what he thought of Antonio's body.

As they left the room, Antonio tried to pick up conversation again, obviously not sensing the steadily intensifying vibes of annoyance rolling off Lovino in waves. Lovino ignored him the entire way down, rushing to the small round table in their elaborate kitchen and taking his usual seat in front of his plate. The plate itself didn't much interest Lovino, but rather what was on the ceramic dish: a large helping of _penne alla vodka_, situated in the center. Usually, it was Lovino's favorite type of pasta, but when Feliciano made it, it was transformed from his favorite to the best damn thing he had ever eaten. The noodles themselves were cooked to perfection, but the sauce was what really sparkled on his taste buds. The creamy tomato sauce was always seasoned with the right amount of anything—never too salty or peppery or even overly spiceful in general—and, the icing on the cake—or in this case, sauce on the pasta—were huge chunks of sun-dried tomatoes present with abundance in the sauce. Needless to say, Lovino's mood was somewhat lightened.

Or, at least, it _was_ until Antonio had to ruin it again.

"_Dios mio_, Feliciano, this is amazing," the excitable Spaniard exclaimed. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Lovino's heart dropped into his stomach, the likes of which was already churning uncomfortably, and he hunched down into his chair, the bite of spaghetti he was chewing suddenly less delicious than it had been a second ago.

Feliciano had been cooking for a long time, since he was little. Lovino could remember his mom taking the younger of the twins into the kitchen with her and showing him the exact way to make and then cook a pot of pasta. He remembered, also, watching from the doorway, silently observing and taking all of the little details into account for his own use. Later that night, desperate to prove himself as good as Feliciano, he snuck into the kitchen and tried to make the spaghetti as his brother had been taught earlier. Needless to say, he failed miserably, messing up the amounts water so the dough ended up being more like oatmeal rather than a tangible, moldable thing.

Lovino had tried to clean it up, doing a pretty good job despite the fact that he had tears streaming down his face in torrents, but his mom came in that morning to make breakfast for the twins, and found traces of Lovino's midnight escapades. He remembered how she had peered out of the corner of her eye at Lovino's guilty face as he walked through the door, smiling knowingly. Rather than punish him, however, she had only said, "Looks like we have a kitchen fairy living here." When asked, begged, what a kitchen fairy was, the lady had simply responded, "Kitchen fairies are nice little people who sneak into kitchens at night and make delicious food for the humans to eat in the morning. We have to look for the food they left us, or they'll feel bad that we ignored them!"

They looked all that morning, and never found any of the fabled delicious food or straggling kitchen fairies, but it was fun. And it was something Lovino had never forgotten.

Cooking wasn't a good memory for him, though, not anymore. When their father left, their mother, who had done all the cooking, went with him, leaving there an empty kitchen and empty stomachs. That's when Feliciano stepped up to the plate, taking over the role of their mother. Even now, he did all of the cooking and cleaning in the house, even walking to the grocery store a few miles away to get food when their grandfather forgot or was too busy to go.

Seeing how helpful Feliciano was only made Lovino feel worse about himself and his uselessness. He had always regretted not being more there for Feliciano in such a painful time, and continued to hate himself for being so selfish in a period that wasn't just hurting himself, but Feliciano, too.

His grandfather agreed.

"Lovi, do you want dessert, too?" Feliciano asked cheerfully, successfully snapping Lovino out of his thoughts.

Shaking his head to free it of the last threads of his previously pensive mind, Lovino responded, "No." He shoved back his chair, grabbing his plate, rinsing it in the sink, and finally placing the ceramic dish in the dishwasher. "I'm going to bed."

Undeterred by his twin's usual abruptness, Feliciano said, "Okay. _Buonanotte_, Lovi~!"

"_Buenas noches_, Lovino," Antonio called, startling Lovino. He had forgotten the Spaniard was still there. "See you in school Monday."

Without replying, the confused Italian wandered up to his room and collapsed on his bed, falling asleep within an instant.

o.0.O.0.o

_Pero vuoi vivere perche chi non vive lascia il segno di più grande errore (But you want to live because he who doesn't wears the sign of the greatest mistake) – "Scivoli di Nuovo" by Tiziano Ferro_

_I have a challenge! There is a word in here that I made up. If you can find it, I'll give you a one-shot of your request~!_

_Chibianimefreak out~!_


	3. Legato

_Finally, the first day of school! And no, it won't go well… Ah, Lovi you're just so good at finding trouble. Not much else to say really… Um, enjoy~!_

_Disclaimer: Hetalia no es mío._

o.O.0.O.o

_**But watching you stand alone all of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow**_

o.0.O.0.o

"Ve, Lovi come on, get up~!"

Lovino blinked his eyes open, squinting at the assault of sunlight beaming directly into his eyes. Upon being met with his brother's way-too-cheerful-for-morning face, Lovino groaned, rolling over to face away from him and tugging up the warm duvet to cover his chilled body.

Feliciano let out a frustrated sigh and speed-walked across Lovino's messy room to his window, pulling the blinds up with a flourish and successfully blinding Lovino even through his closed lids.

"Lovi," Feliciano whined as his brother cursed at the unwanted light beaming into his eyes, "it's our first day of high school, aren't you excited?"

"Fuck no," Lovino mumbled, his dry throat scratching painfully at the words. Despite his otherwise insinuating words, he pushed the covers down and sat up, slowly blinking his eyes to adjust to the light. "I'm up, now get out," he said as he began to climb out of the messy bed.

The younger twin pouted, but followed his brother's request and left the dim room. "Breakfast will be done in a few, so hurry up~," he called as he retreated through the doorway.

Lovino went through the morning routine—a rather boring affair consisting of not much more or less than a quick rinse off of a shower, brushing his teeth and hair hurriedly, and throwing on a pair of dark-wash jeans and a t-shirt—he would have for the next four years, and hurried downstairs, red backpack full of empty folders and other such school supplies waiting to be useful slung over his shoulder. He shoveled down his breakfast of toast and an egg quickly, and followed his waiting twin out the door of their house to start the walk to the large educational building awaiting their arrival for the first time.

"Good luck, _Fratello_," Feliciano said as they reached the threshold of the school. The younger Vargas twin gave his brother a smile, an uncharacteristic set of nerves showing.

Lovino turned his head to face his brother, a matching expression on his face, though a bit more sour. It wasn't like his brother to get nervous, but he could understand. This was a huge milestone in their lives, high school. It signified so many things: freedom, looming adulthood, partying, maturity; everyone seemed to have a different opinion on the matter. For Lovino, though, he found it as more of the next wall laying dauntingly before him, ready to provide even more of an obstacle in his hopeless search for happiness. Sure, he was glad to finally get the freedom being regarded as a "young adult" by many of those far past that stage in life, but found it to be an underwhelming feat for him. Lovino was already sufficiently self-reliant—a trait which had come more from necessity than want—and saw high school as nothing more than an opportunity to become maybe a little more so.

Lovino sighed. It was not a defeated sigh, however, but rather the rapid exhalation of air of a determined man, one who may not be ready for that which lies ahead, but is willing to face it despite the possible consequences. His eyes matched the noise in displaying his inhibitions and his willpower. "Yeah," Lovino said, turning to face forward again, "I'm going to need it."

Lovino most certainly wasn't ready for high school, but apparently it was ready for him. He took a deep breath. Well, he wasn't one to back away from a challenge.

o.O.0.O.o

With a burdened sigh of relief, Lovino emerged from his fourth period class, the last before his lunch wave. As he had already suspected, nothing eventful had happened as of yet. Each class was more or less the same: role-call, syllabus, summary, always in that order, and never varying in terms of levels of boredom.

It was a monotonous and lackluster experience, the first day in high school.

Truly, the only even slightly eventful/out of the ordinary thing to happen was during the morning assembly. Everyone was ushered into the large auditorium and made to sit in the creaky theatre-like chairs; the teachers stared down the rows like hawks while the laughable principal gave some speech about hoping for a good year and following rules and the like.

Of course, it didn't quite go as planned.

Halfway through, one of the seniors—a crazy-looking albino in punkish attire—somehow managed to maneuver his way on stage and fucking _pants_ the principal mid-word. A highlight, certainly, but it didn't seem to be to abnormal for the particular student, for the vice-principal, a strict, upright woman who always looked as though she were sucking lemons, grabbed his arm, and started hollering in German and hauling the boy off the stage, the single screech of "_Gilbert!_" not missing Lovino's ears.

Despite the interesting start to school, the rest of the day was comparably boring, and Lovino was more than willing to take a break and relax during his lunch. With this in mind, he began the walk across school to his locker, not stopping in his trek when the bell rang—one of the few useful facts he had gotten from Antonio during the orientation was that it wasn't important to get to lunch on time; nobody cared—and simply carrying on listlessly as the hallways emptied of the last of its occupants, most of them filing into the various classrooms littering the sides of the passage.

Lovino finally reached his locker, and grabbed the dial hanging from the door that would free it so he could get the books he would need for the second half of the day. The clattering of the dial echoed in the empty hallway as he turned it, entering his three-number combination before attempting to pull the door free. When it stuck fast, he swore, and tried again, slightly more peeved. Again, the door failed to open, and his swear was a tad more colorful this time.

"If you keep up with that mouth of yours people are gonna get the wrong idea 'bout you, pipsqueak," a voice sounded.

Lovino's head bolted up from his task, and he took in the sight before him. Three boys, all much larger than him, both in terms of height and muscular mass filled the width of the hallway, blocking his only way out. Lovino had never really minded much that he wasn't the strongest person; he'd never really needed, nor desired to be. But, now, as he was faced with the threat of the three looming upperclassmen, he wished more than anything he would have been able to stand up to them.

They stalked closer, feral grins stretching across their faces, and an evil glint in their eyes. "You little brat," the one in the middle spoke again, "always acting so fucking tough." He pushed Lovino soundly in the chest, effectively slamming the younger teen into the row of lockers behind him with a resounding clash.

Lovino's breath left him in a sudden rush as he collided with the metal of the lockers. His eyes were opened wide in shock, the bright hazel of their depths glazed over in fear and disbelief.

"Fucking queer," another voice taunted as a fist came barreling into Lovino's stomach. The pain spread moments later, the ache somehow encompassing much larger than the area which had been hit. Before the pain had a chance to fade, another punch, this one aimed at his face, hit.

Lovino curled in on himself, trying without much success to protect himself from the barrage of punches and kicks aimed at the various vital points on his body. He succumbed to the pain, his senses no longer truly differentiating between one hit and the next. His vision went dark, and it was becoming increasingly hard to stay conscious.

Then, through some God-sent miracle, the barrage of hurt ended as suddenly as it had begun. Through a haze of fog and pain, Lovino heard murmuring, and felt himself being lifted from the ground gently. His body was pressed against a warm, firm chest, and he let his head fall onto it as he was held bridal style. Lovino shifted ever so slightly with each step, the comforting pattern convincing him to finally succumb to unconsciousness.

o.O.0.O.o

The first thing Lovino was aware of as he opened his eyes was the probably one of the brightest lights he had ever seen. The second was a painful ache spread over his entire body.

Lovino's eyes darted around the room, taking in the desk in the far corner, the number of single beds arranged around him and the table covered in jars labeled with stickers reading things like "band-aids" and "tampons". Though he had never actually been in the place, he quickly identified it as the nurse's office.

He groaned in annoyance and pain as he struggled into a sitting position, the movements not helping his aching body any.

"He's awake~!"

Lovino's head turned towards the familiar voice. Sure enough, Feliciano was sitting on the bed next to his own. And, of course, he wasn't alone. Directly next to his brother—and far too close to the Italian if you were to ask Lovino—was Antonio, eyes barely sparing a glance at the newly awakened teen before darting back to his chestnut-haired twin.

Lovino clutched at his stomach, and only then realized it to be bare, as was his entire upper body. His cheeks turned pink, and he glanced across at Antonio. When he saw the Spaniard's attention elsewhere, he felt something heavy sink into his stomach, the weight of it pulling his thoughts even deeper into a pit of sadness than before. Directing his gaze away from the undoubtedly uninterested Antonio, Lovino peered at his stomach and chest. He was startled to see the olive skin already beginning to bruise, reds and purples mixing with a variety of other colors to form the alarmingly vibrant mark.

"It's just bruised," Feliciano said upon seeing Lovino observing the damage, "the nurse said you were lucky not to have any broken ribs." Golden eyes narrowed in worry. "Lovi, what happened~? When you didn't show up at lunch, I got worried, so we went to look for you~. When Antonio and I got there, there were some older boys running away and you were on the ground, so he carried you here."

Ignoring the thrill the idea of being carried by Antonio rose in his stomach, Lovino looked up at his innocent brother, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears, obviously worried sick for his twin. Sighing, Lovino ran his hands through his tussled hair. "It was nothing," Lovino waved Feliciano off, "just some guys being jerks."

Feliciano didn't seem sated, but before he could object any further, Antonio butted in, "You kinda brought it upon yourself, though. I mean, if you were nicer like your brother, then maybe they wouldn't have beaten you up."

Lovino stared at Antonio in shocked hurt, disbelief painted plain over his face. When Antonio's face didn't soften its careless expression, Lovino forced his own face straight in a desperate attempt to appear to hold as much disinterest in the Spaniard as he did for Lovino. He quickly glanced down at his lap, swallowing heavily. It was true, oh so true. If he was only more amicable, or friendlier, then other people would like him more, and he would have less a chance of being beaten up. Feliciano's innocent face protected him, so naturally if Lovino were the same he would be safe.

Then why did it still hurt so badly to hear the accusatory words?

"What period is it?" Lovino asked, frown deepening as his voice cracked.

"The end of the day bell should ring any minute now, ve," Feliciano said, seemingly unaware of the state Antonio's comment had put Lovino in. Just as the words were out of his mouth, the ring sounded. The day was over.

Lovino let out a shaky breath of relief, unbelievably glad he had somehow managed to get through the first day, however shaky.

"I'm going to stay after school," Lovino said, standing up abruptly and wincing at the pain the sudden movement brought. He found his shirt on a nearby chair and pulled it on, biting his tongue to keep a yelp from escaping.

"You'll be home for dinner, though?" Feliciano asked.

"Yeah." Lovino grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder in what he hoped was a natural manner and marched out the door before the two other teens grabbing their own materials to head home behind him could join him on his way out.

Eyes burning and stomach aching, Lovino headed out into the crowded hallway. He was on his way to his sanctuary: the band room.

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino burst into the empty music room, shutting the door behind him. His heart thumped threateningly in his chest, the overwhelming feelings from the day in general threatening to overrun him. His chest was dangerously close to bursting, it seemed to him, and he felt as though if he dared to take too heavy a breath it would collapse from the pressure of his overbearing sentiments.

Lovino had always thought of himself as being strong of mind, able to withstand any hardship that came his way, if only through his obstinate and hard-headed determination, but even he had his own break downs every once in a while. Lovino allowed them to occur with only the thought that when they were over with, the sources of paranoia would be sated some, and that it would calm him for some time. Undoubtedly they would begin gathering again, the depressing thoughts and inhibitions, but it would at least hold off the inevitable, and reduce the risk of anything embarrassing occurring as a result of them.

Lovino hoped it would become easier with time to deal with his ever-changing mood, and that with maturity and adult life would come a better sense of an anchor to hold him down, but as it was going right now, he wasn't so sure exactly when this transition would take place.

As of now, the best he had was his music. When he played he tended to get lost within the melody, letting the emotions of the music take over for his own, and therefore allowing him to relinquish himself to the chords and tones.

With that comforting thought in mind, he jerked into motion rather suddenly, irritating his wounds in his haste to begin as soon as possible, and headed across the music room to the locker his dearest treasure was stored in.

It wasn't his first oboe, but most certainly just as cherished as that one had been. His very first had been given to him by his mother before his parents left all those years ago, and had been a congratulations present after his first truly successful concert. Lovino remembered how it felt to hold it for the first time, so shiny and new, the burnished plastic smooth in his small hands.

It was long gone, and the one he had currently was far more suited to his current needs. It was a professional grade instrument, made of the best quality violet wood, and equipped with a full conservative system of keys comprised of lustrous silver. They bent beautifully under his touch, the shift of his fingers creating an unrivaled sound; just the thought sent a thrill of anticipation through him.

Upon reaching the metal contraption, he spun his code into the lock, fingers shaking as his eyes burned and blurred with unshed tears. Three times he entered a false number and had to start again, but finally the lock clicked apart and allowed him to open the cage door and retrieve the black leather box containing the key to the small bit of contentedness he could count on.

Lovino wouldn't venture to call the feelings he experienced whilst playing the precious instrument "happy" per say, but they settled him somewhat, letting his mind escape reality and calming it with but a single note. The slight calm also permitted the escape of the emotions bottled up inside. He was never much of a fluid talker, nor fairly social in general, so he expressed himself through his music instead, letting the melody wave and bend to his feelings. Of course, with no one there to listen it wasn't exactly the equivalent of talking it out, but he was content with what he had.

Lovino sat the case on a nearby chair and, bending over slightly, popped open the clasps, peeling the lid once it was free to do so. He relished in the sight of the delicate instrument, taking in the familiar dark brown wood, the lines of the tree it came from still visible through the dark tarnish. Every time he saw it, it felt as if it were for the first time all over again, and, though he knew the oboe would be shot in a few years, he loved it as he didn't any person.

The Italian broke from his reverie, reaching to pull the pieces out and place them in the perfect order, the one which would allow sounds unique to the oboe to escape from the bell in the most beautiful way. Once it was properly pieced together, he opened the small bottle of water containing his hand crafted reed and stuck it in his mouth to warm it slightly, allowing his tongue to roll over the bittersweet wood and coat it thoroughly. If the reed dried out, then, rather than being the key to playing the oboe, it would be a tied together collection of pieces of French weeds with no purpose. Needless to say, he took extra care to not allow that; they were extremely expensive, especially considering he got them hand-made from a professional oboist in the area. Of course, he would add his own extra flourishes to the design of the reed in order to ensure his own sound, but he was too busy and it was too long a process for him to bother making his own from scratch.

Confident in the state of the reed, he secured it to the tip, wiggling it on to the height he knew would make it in tune. Lovino glanced quickly out the small window in the door to reassure himself that, yes, everyone had gone home for the day, and finally put it to his lips. Lovino took a deep breath, getting himself back into the state of mind he seemed to naturally fall into while playing. His brain immediately set itself on a different kind of mode as he blew life into the otherwise dead and purposeless hunk of wood and silver, and the first note was released into the air. It wasn't perfectly in tune, but at the moment he didn't care; he was too enamored by the prospect of the next hour or so to come, though he knew it could very easily be much longer.

Lovino's fingers moved of their own accord, slowly at first, his sound level not a step over _pianissimo_, but gradually his speed and volume rose together as he gained confidence in what he was doing.

The sound flowed out of the instrument, and Lovino couldn't help but take pride in its uniqueness. Most would describe the sound an oboe makes as a duck, or something similarly unflattering. In fact, within the composition "Peter and the Wolf" the part of the duck was played by the oboe. Not that Lovino held much to Russian compositions anyway, but he digressed. To him, the oboe, if played correctly, could sound pure and wholesome. Part of the mystery of it was to discover how exactly to downplay that squeaky sound so often associated with it, and instead make it sing with a melodic vibrato.

Lovino liked to believe he was capable of doing that.

And so Lovino got lost in the music, not relying on anything written, but instead forming melodies within his mind, letting them flow out of his head, down through his spine, spiraling out his nerves and to his fingertips where they in turn padded up and down the pads with a scary precision.

One by one his insecurities played themselves out in his mind, flowing out into the music and releasing into the air. Eventually Lovino reached the topic of Antonio, the unreachable senior who, no matter what measures Lovino took to avoid him, seemed to always be showing up in the most random places, torturing Lovino with his presence.

And that was a bad thing. Every time Antonio came to Lovino's mind, the Italian couldn't help but think traitorous thoughts about the boy. Now, it wasn't that Lovino or his family was opposed to homosexuality—rather they were all for it—so they weren't treacherous in that manner, but rather he is being traitorous to his mind by allowing himself to think of the boy in such a manner. It was daunting how much the smiley Spaniard came entered his mind within a day. And when he was in the room, all that existed seemed to be him, the light of his soul and smile shining from within him in the most radiant way, resembling almost the illusion of an angel descending augustly from his residence in heaven.

Lovino let out a shiver as an image of Antonio and his crowd-pleasing smile came into mind, involuntarily making his cheeks heat up his stomach churn unsettlingly. It was a perfect image, but an unobtainable one. Lovino knew the Spaniard liked his brother more—so, _so_ much more—and that to Antonio, as with most people, Lovino was only "the temperamental brother". If Lovino had had any doubts about the truth in the statement earlier, he was "sated" now.

_If you were nicer like your brother . . ._

Rather deliberately or not, Lovino's music drifted into a _rallentando_, and he sustained a G for a melancholy moment before letting it fall to an F#, dropping a single finger to do so. He cut it off suddenly after a few moments of holding the minor note, his ears ringing from the lack of noise. The air crackled with tension the off note created as if holding its breath, waiting with unabated impatience for the Italian to continue.

Lovino picked up again, finally relieving the room of its edginess, another shiver traveling through him from the sadness resonating in the music and his thoughts, this one chilling his body rather than heating it; it wasn't until he paused to take a shuddering breath that he realized he was crying.

The tears that had wanted to escape earlier ran freely down his face, and Lovino was glad he had no sheet music to rely on. If he had, then surely he wouldn't be able to continue playing his sight was so inhibited by the salty liquid running from his eyes.

A moment later, his body convulsed in a sob, and Lovino was forced to release his mouth from the oboe so as not to break the fragile reed decorating its tip. He tried and failed to hold back the increasingly intense sobs, and finally relented, dropping the hand holding his instrument and hunching his shoulders as if it would somehow prevent the outside world from coming in.

Of course, it never worked that way.

The harsh clang of the door closing startled Lovino out of his concentration. He spun around wildly, hazel eyes flaring with fear and anger both. There, some ways in the room was Antonio, eyes wide and piteous, mouth opening and closing in an effort to find something to say.

Lovino seemed to finally snap out of his state, which could have very easily been described as similar to a deer in the headlights. He wiped his face with the back of his free hand, trying to hurriedly erase the tears that seemed to have finally stopped flowing.

"What the fuck are you doing here, bastard?" Lovino spat accusingly, hurriedly wiping his face with the corner of his sleeve. His eyes were directed downwards, shining rawly with a golden-green light not meant for Antonio's sight.

Antonio took a few more steps into the room, swallowing hesitantly. "I was walking by on my way to soccer practice and heard you playing." He peered intently at the tear-faced Italian. "Lovino, that was amazing."

"It wasn't in even in key, bastard," Lovino managed to mutter with a crackly voice.

Antonio let out a shaky smile. "Well, I don't really have much of an ear for music. To me it was astounding. Where did you learn to play like that?"

Lovino shook his head, turning around and beginning to take apart his oboe and repackage it in the case. There was no way he would get any more practicing done now. "Like what? I told you, it wasn't anything so great."

A hand appeared on Lovino's shoulder and he jumped. He hadn't even heard the footfalls. With a light blush he finished his deconstruction, snapping the box shut with a resounding snap.

"But, Lovino—"

"Just shut it, will you?" Lovino snapped, suddenly unbelievably angry with Antonio. So now he cared? Now he actually wanted to know about him? Well fuck him, then. It was just pity anyways; when he got over the sadness Lovino just inadvertently revealed to him he would no doubt leave the Italian to continue to rot from the inside out. Because that's what he was doing, rotting. He was spoiled in his core; the sour attitude he possessed had finally penetrated into his soul and destroyed what little potential there was residing there.

Lovino tore out of the Spaniard's grip and walked over to replace his instrument in its original place, slamming the metal door closed with a little more force than was necessary. "I can't be fucking amazing because I'm not Feliciano. If I'm myself I just get beat up, right?" His eyes bored into Antonio's form, anger filling every ounce of his being. What right did that bastard have to praise him now after all he said before? Did he somehow think it would make up for his earlier comments?

Antonio, at least, had the graces to look sheepish. "I-I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did," Lovino interrupted him icily, "but that's okay. It was true, at least." He grabbed his bag and walked to the door, pointedly keeping to the far side of the room so as not to get caught in the Spaniard's grip again.

"Wait!"

Lovino pushed open the door and emerged out into the deserted hallway. He hurried to the entrance to the school, wanting to get as far away from Antonio as possible. He didn't think he'd have any trouble hating him now.

Lovino chose to ignore the part of him that wished Antonio would follow him.

o.O.0.O.o

_Am I right to assume the lyrics in the beginning don't need translating this time? XD_

_Ah, anyways, this chapter was long and odd at first. The bits were kind of small, and the last part seemed out of place. Meh, I blame it on the fact that I've had the last part written for weeks._

_Anyways, hope you enjoyed~!_

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	4. Caesura

_Posting a day early because of a field trip to NYC tomorrow~! I won't get back home until about 10:30 so… yeah…_

_I almost didn't write this at all… I had a bit of a writer's block earlier this week, basically ever since I posted the one-shot. (BTW called _Expeditious Expectations_). BUT I wrote this. Actually, I wrote the whole thing tonight, so I may come back Thursday and be like "the fuck is this?" and edit a bunch of it…._

_Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, goddamn it, so stop fucking pushing it in my face! GAH!_

_Enjoy~! (I need sleep…)_

o.O.0.O.o

_**一開始我只顝著看你裝做不勁意 心卻飄過去還竊喜 你沒發垷我 哚在角落**_

o.O.0.O.o

It wasn't often Antonio wanted to delve deeper into something. He wasn't the most perceptive person by nature, nor was he the most in tune with other people's feelings in general. Because of this, he wasn't particularly keen to look beneath the surface—a trait which hadn't done much to help his English grade—of anything really, whether it be a book or a person, if only because he tended to falsely read them. Even when it came to his closest friends, Gilbert and Francis, he saw and accepted them as they were: a narcissist and a pervert.

Which is why Antonio, as he sat in his Spanish class the second day of school, was surprised to find he wanted to discover what lay beneath _Lovino's_ harsh surface. He was sure, though he didn't know why, there was _something_ buried in Lovino, something wonderful. Most people, upon first meeting the Italian, believed him to be harsh and mean-hearted—something, Antonio admitted sheepishly, he was also guilty of—and, in reality, Lovino gave them plenty of reason to. He _was_ mean, harsh, abrasive, sharp-tongued, and overall just a bad person to know. But there must be something in there, there had to be. Lovino's music was so beautiful and full of emotion; that couldn't have come from nowhere, right? It meant Lovino himself had to be just as emotional and inwardly beautiful as his melodies, especially considering they came from within the Italian. This rationalization made sense to Antonio, so he wasn't sure of _why_ Lovino acted as he did. Surely if he was nicer and—dare he say—more like Feliciano, then people would be more prone to like him. There must have been a mentality behind it, Antonio reasoned.

A jolt of realization shot through Antonio, and he stood up rather suddenly, his chair emitting a screech as it was forced backwards on the tiled floor.

Could it be Lovino didn't want people to like him?

"Antonio," the wheezy teacher uttered wearily, "is there a reason you felt the need to disrupt my class so suddenly?"

Looking around, Antonio met the faces of nearly the entire class staring at the popular Spaniard, eyebrows raised and joking smirks on their faces at Antonio's antics. They relied on this kind of thing from Gilbert usually, though the addition of Antonio to the class clown mix wasn't unwelcome to the bored teenagers.

Slowly, lethargically, Antonio's mind caught back up to his situation, and his brain registered the fact that, yes, he was still in class, and that, yes, he had just stood up in the middle of it, successfully creating a scene. "No, _señora. Lo siento,_" he replied, cheeks burning. Antonio sat down much more slowly than he had stood, aware of the class's eyes on him as he shakily took his seat once again.

"_N__o hagas otra vez, por favor_," the teacher sighed tiredly. She was a short, squat woman with a messy bob of dull black hair and thick-rimmed glasses. She was an odd lady for sure, but not an unkind one, and held a kind of soft spot for the native Spaniard. It was always great to have a student who understood what you were saying _all_ of the time, not just when you were speaking English.

Nodding embarrassedly as the teacher continued with her lesson, Antonio leaned back in his chair again, resigned to sit quietly for the rest of class. It was easy enough and took little to no attention on his part to pass efficiently, after all. Truthfully, he was only taking Spanish as and easy A on the advice of Francis—a native Frenchman himself—who was doing the same thing, though with French.

Expectedly, as Antonio's mind drifted it landed back on Lovino. It had been doing so ever since the fateful encounter with the Italian before his practice yesterday, much to both Antonio's annoyance and interest—a confusing mix for sure. He didn't know why, nor did he particularly like, how Lovino kept pushing his way into Antonio's mind like a highly pressurized gas during effusion. It was more than slightly annoying, and he really wished he could rid his mind of the Italian. Really, his life would be so much simpler were he not to bother himself with Lovino. But, a small part of him _wanted_ to help the Italian, wanted to discover why he acted as he did, wanted to _know_ Lovino inside and out.

He wished he could ignore that part.

A quick glance at the clock informed him it was only five minutes to the bell, a happy thought. Next was lunch, and Antonio was determined to patch things with Lovino at least a bit during it.

Usually, Antonio, Francis and Gilbert would sit together throughout lunch, as it was one of the few periods they all had together. Truthfully, it was odd enough the three of them were friends in the first place. They were quite different; all were in different cliques, ran in different circles, and took different types of class. Francis: chic, suave Frenchman, master of fashion and beauty and a natural philandering flirt; Gilbert: punkish, albino "Prussian" and self-proclaimed "king of awesome" with more demerits and detentions than could be counted on the fingers of the entire staff; Antonio: bright-eyed, athletic Spaniard, up and coming soccer star and overall athlete, lean, mean and an oblivious heartthrob; together: the infamous Bad Touch Trio.

Feliciano and Matthew, Francis' recently transferred cousin, had become additions to their table as of yesterday, and Antonio was hoping Lovino would join just as seamlessly as the freshman and sophomore had. It was a hollow hope, he knew, but whenever he heard Lovino's music in his head again, he knew he had to believe it to be possible to reconcile with the troubled boy.

With that thought, the bell finally rang, releasing the throngs of students into the hallways only to trap them back in constricting classrooms five minutes later. With no hesitation, Antonio stood up with the rest of them and filed out of his class, ready to battle the crowd to the cafeteria.

Five minutes and three bruises later, Antonio found himself navigating through the lunchroom towards the usual table. He was surprised to find it was already sporting Francis and Matthew, the latter of which was quietly reading a novel while the former rattled on about something or other, obviously not holding much offense to his cousin's lack of attention.

"Where's Gilbert?" Antonio questioned as he pulled a chair up to their round table and plopping down in the colorless seat, interrupting Francis' tirade—which he had just then realized was in French.

Francis shrugged. "He probably got himself suspended again." The teen shook his head. "I do not understand why the school even tries anymore."

Shaking his head in agreement, Antonio leaned back in the plastic chair and stared at the entrance attentively, waiting for one of the Italian twins to walk through it. Not a moment later, Feliciano did just that, clinging to a vaguely familiar sophomore. He was tall and broad, the combination giving him a look much older than his years, with a square jaw. He was all sharp angles and harsh edges; from his perfectly slicked back bleach-blonde hair to his piercing, diamond-cut blue eyes to his obviously ironed-to-perfection outfit, he gave the appearance of strictness.

And yet, for all his professionalism, the man was made a blushing and flustered mess by the cheery Italian clinging to his arm with no intention of releasing it anytime soon. Without missing a beat, Feliciano dragged the unwilling sophomore to their nearly empty table with an enthusiastic smile.

"_C__iao_ everyone," he said upon finally reaching them and taking a seat, gesturing for the prudish teen to do the same, "this is Ludwig~. We're in history together and I didn't have a pencil so he gave me one of his~. Isn't that so nice~? And then we were talking a lot, and I invited him to sit with us~." He turned to face Ludwig with an airy smile. "This is Francis, Antonio, and Matthew~." The cheery Italian gestured to each of the teens in turn as he named them, smiling hugely as he did so. "I'm sure everyone will like you as much as I do, Luddy~."

The awkward boy recently dubbed "Luddy" faced the unimpressed highschoolers surrounding him with a stony face. "_Hallo_, I am Ludwig Beilschmidt, nice to meet you," he introduced himself in a heavily accented, but utterly unemotional, voice.

Matthew observed the scene over the top of his book. He mumbled a petite "nice to meet you" but it went unheard. Sighing in a defeated way, he retreated back to the confines of his book.

Francis passed a knowing look over Feliciano and Ludwig, eyes darting to their unbroken hold. A moment later violet eyes snapped back up to the German's face. "So you're Gilbert's brother, then?" he asked with mild interest.

Ludwig deflated slightly, suddenly looking very tired. "_Ja_. I am sorry for whatever my brother did to you and I assure you he will apologize soon," he said in an authoritative monotone, the words sounding rehearsed and as if he had heard them a thousand times before. Knowing Gilbert, he probably had.

Francis' smile turned to a smirk. "Gilbert has done many things to me, and I do not wish for him to apologize for them." Ludwig blushed as Feliciano cocked his head innocently. "But that aside," Francis continued, a single brow rising, "you two are very different."

"Thank you," Ludwig answered sincerely.

Feliciano tugged on his arm. "Luddy, let's go get food~. I'm hungry~," Feliciano half whined, half ordered the much larger German. Without waiting for Ludwig's reply, he stood up, leaving the sophomore with no other choice but to follow the Italian. With a relenting sigh, he stood up and walked away with Feliciano.

They had not, Antonio noted as he observed the two walking across the cafeteria together, released each other since he had seen them enter. He felt he should be hurt—after all, he thought he had liked Feliciano—but found he wasn't as torn as he thought he ought to be. It was surprising, but not undesired. He wasn't one to request heartache where it wasn't in order.

"Looks like you lost _ton petit italien, mon ami_," Francis said, pulling out a lunch bag. Ever since Antonio had known the Frenchman, he had never once seen him eat cafeteria food, claiming he was too "dignified" to eat such rubbish. Antonio couldn't help but agree that the food was terrible, but found he always forgot to pack himself a lunch in the morning, and was therefore always forced to purchase the overpriced school option.

Antonio hummed in agreement, eyes drifting back to the entryway in the hopes he'd see Lovino enter sometime soon. He was beginning to get worried. What if he was getting beaten up again? Antonio pushed down his agitation. What did he care anyways? So what if much larger boys were beating Lovino to a pulp, what could Antonio do about it? He may be athletic, but it was all lean muscle and not meant to be used for brawls. Plus, it's not like he had some odd hero-complex that caused him to want to rescue every helpless freshman caught in the clutches of evil upperclassmen.

His fingers tapped the table anxiously, and he crossed his legs as if to stop himself from bursting up right then and there to find Lovino.

Unbeknownst to the Spaniard, his French friend was watching him with renewed interest. Francis was curious, which was a bad thing, a very bad thing indeed. The man had thought Antonio was fairly infatuated by Feliciano, but he seemed very barely affected by the Italian's obvious attraction to Mr. I-have-a-stick-up-my-ass Ludwig.

The lewd Frenchman got his answer when Feliciano and Ludwig returned to the table, finally separated, and with a scowling Lovino trailing behind. Antonio's entire demeanor brightened when he caught sight of the moody Italian, and when said Italian met Antonio's eyes, his scowl deepened, immediately directing his gaze elsewhere.

Suspicious. Very Suspicious.

Francis decided to get to the bottom of this odd dilemma—if it was one. He _was_ the master of _l'amour_ after all.

As Francis deliberated his plan of attack, Antonio was beyond elated to finally see Lovino again. With a hesitant grin, he scooted his chair to the side, pulling up a new one to place in the open space between him and Ludwig. "Hey, Lovi, come sit here~!"

Lovino glanced up at the Spaniard with a conflicted look. Within the swimming hazel eyes Antonio could see a strange combination of surprise, fear, and hope, though the last was buried so deep the Spaniard almost didn't catch it.

"Why the fuck would I do that?" Lovino growled. With a scowl, Lovino pointedly pulled a separate chair up between his brother and Matthew, glaring at Antonio for good measure.

_Well,_ Antonio thought, _guess he hasn't forgiven me_.

But it was okay, because it would be a journey to discover the innermost workings of Lovino's psyche, and it wouldn't be an easy one. Antonio knew then that he was going to do this. He was going to crack Lovino, whether the Italian wanted him to or not.

Only, it wasn't for Lovino that Antonio was doing this. It wasn't out of pity, nor did Antonio wish to "save" Lovino. No, he was being selfish. He wanted to discover Lovino for himself, to experience what no one else had before: Lovino's true self.

A modern day odyssey of sorts was unfolding, and Antonio found himself at the center of the various impediments in place to prohibit the unraveling of Lovino, the road ahead uncharted. There was one thing he knew, though: the hardest of the obstacles to overcome would be Lovino himself.

o.O.0.O.o

_一開始我只顝著看你裝做不勁意 心卻飄過去還竊喜 你沒發垷我 哚在角落 __(From the start I was occupied in watching you, pretending it to be accidental while my heart flew over to you, secretly happy you did not notice me hiding in the corner)—"Shuo Ai Ni" by Jolin Tsai_

_Ah, and I forgot to say that the lyrics from the last chapter were from Christina Perri's "A Thousand Years"._

_A bit shorter than usual, but not bad for having written it in one night, I suppose._

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	5. Crescendo Poco a Poco

_Hm, when looking over last chapter I feel I was being too harsh to Ludwig . . . oh well. Oh, and this is my first time actually writing him really, so tell me if I go at all OOC. It's the same with other characters, as always. This is my most multi-character story yet . . . Gah._

_Just a note, I'm going to be editing the earlier chapters, so if you get alerts, don't bother with them unless they say chapter six, but that shouldn't be until next week._

_Btw, I love you guys~! This story is more popular than _Just a Day_ so far~! (As in, it already has almost as many reviews/alerts/favorites and is only four—now five—chapters while Just a Day is ten). So thanks to all~! (I am resisting the urge to put "y'all". Gah.)_

_As I'm writing this, I'm sick as a dog. Really the only reason this is a day early is cus of that. Also, because of this I'm more prone to overlook mistakes so please point them out if you find any. Damn sinus infection._

_Disclaimer: No es fácil que Hetalia sea mío. (Ha, I love practicing my Spanish in the disclaimers~)_

o.O.0.O.o

_**If only you saw what I could see you'd understand why I want you so desperately**_

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino knew when he followed Feliciano into the lunchroom he was in for a torturous time, he just hadn't known _how_ torturous it was to be. Just the sight of Antonio made Lovino feel an odd, conflicting mix of embarrassment and anger, the combination only serving to agitate him further. When Antonio _talked_ to him, though, he was thrown into even more confusion as his body reacted completely adverse to his mind's wishes; his heart sped up as the Spaniard unknowingly rolled his r's, the sultry sound heating his blood to ungodly levels. But he remained with his earlier sentiment: he couldn't let Antonio close; it was too risky. Yes, it was selfish of him, but really, in the end, he was doing it more to spare Antonio the disappointment he was sure to be faced with were he to try and crack Lovino, only to find nothing within the Italian worth knowing. Because, surely, were he to realize Lovino truly was just that brutish and abrasive down to his very core he would quickly lose interest, or worse: develop hate.

So, with that fear in mind, it was only natural that, as the bell finally rang, Lovino nearly sprinted out of the crowded room, dodging student after student in his haste to escape the clutches of the determined senior.

"Wait, Lovino!" Antonio called from behind the retreating Italian.

Without missing a beat, Lovino continued with his steady pace out the door of the cafeteria and into the packed hallway, elbowing his way through the throng of people heading out to their own classes. He didn't want to get involved with that bastard. All throughout lunch he had been pestering Lovino with never-ending questions and comments. Why was he suddenly so interested? Was it because Feliciano had found a new upperclassman to latch onto?

_Of course_, Lovino thought bitterly,_ there's no way he would choose me if Feliciano were free_. If the phone call from a few days ago wasn't evidence of that, what was?

Not that he wanted Antonio anywhere near him at this point in time. Lovino felt the kind of mortifying embarrassment similar to that of a slave being perused for his worth. A man in such a state is made to stand and watch in shame as he is made naked before the scrutinizing eyes a possible buyer. All his flaws are narrowed in on, and his worth is judged by them, each one discovered causing the shedding of mental points which in turn solidify in the form of coins flowing from hand to hand to buy the soul of the bargained for man. In a similar way did Lovino feel emotionally bared to Antonio's eyes the day before, his most raw state revealed to judging emeralds.

For Lovino, though, the embarrassment displayed itself not in the form of shame, but rather in anger, anger directed straight for the one who caused the embarrassment in the first place. In this case, Antonio was at the brunt of Lovino's even more concentrated than normal lividness, the likes of which was unbelievably stronger than his usual. To make a choleric, bitter man even more so is an astonishing accomplishment, but Antonio most likely felt anything but glad to have consummated it.

Suddenly, a hand was at Lovino's shoulder. He started and shot a startled look behind him, his frazzled eyes catching Antonio's amicable ones. "Get the fuck away from me, bastard," Lovino yelped, shaking the—_broad, strong_—hand off his shoulder. He continued walking, anger pulsing through him in the form of white-hot hate, and ignoring the sound of protest from the Spaniard.

Despite Lovino's efforts to fight forward in the crowd, Antonio caught up with him again, this time slipping into step beside him with surprising ease. "You're pretty good at slipping into a crowd," Antonio chuckled lightly.

Lovino decided not to dignify the comment with a response. He didn't need to be reminded of how little he stood out.

Undeterred by Lovino's unresponsive, querulous attitude, Antonio simply smiled at the younger teen. "So what do you have next?"

"Math," the Italian spat without turning his eyes to acknowledge the oddly mellow Spaniard. But, for all his anger, Lovino was rational. A worry began settling in his stomach; he had never been to any of the classes he had for the rest of the day yet. Thanks to those bastards—who hadn't appeared since, _grazie a Dio_—he had missed the entirety of the latter half of school, which also meant he had no fucking clue where he was supposed to be heading. Suddenly glad he had thought of studying the school map the night before, Lovino tried his best to pick out a route from his current location. With a hesitant finality, he decided he would have to turn left out of the small hallway leading from the cafeteria in order to reach his next class. Or so he hoped.

Antonio prattled on about something or other as the two reached the end of the hallway, one way going left, another to the right, and the third leading up a flight of stairs. Without hesitating, Antonio went to head up the stairs, unconsciously grabbing Lovino and pulling the Italian with him.

"Let go, bastard," Lovino yelled, "I have to go the other way!" He tried and failed to pull his arm free of the Spaniard's strong grip, struggling to turn the other way. His skin burned where the Spaniard held him in the way of an unsettling mix of lava and passion, disconcerting his already scrambled emotions.

"Ah, come on, Lovi, come with me this way~," Antonio nearly whined, tugging on Lovino's arm again and continuing to walk towards the stairs. They were like death: a journey unknown riddled with mystery and possibly perilous dangers.

"No, fucker," Lovino growled, "I don't know how to get to my damn classes that way because _someone_ was too busy obsessing over my fucking brother during orientation." He glared at the ground in frustration when Antonio stopped in his tracks, staring at Lovino with an unidentifiable look. With the kind of hesitation shown by one who treads on earth where there may be mines ready to explode at one wrong step, Lovino rose his eyes to meet Antonio's.

The world narrowed rather suddenly, seeming to encompass only the two wayward students at a standstill in the depths of a beehive of a passageway. Lovino felt as he had the afternoon previous again: an open book for the older teen to read for his own pleasure. It was a scary thought, and an unfamiliar one, one provided by the uncharacteristically revealing comment he had just made.

At that moment Lovino knew Antonio was made aware of something. He was starting to not only know something _was_ wrong but also figure out what actually caused that something. It was a terrifying thought, one that almost threw Lovino into a panic attack. But, for all its daunting qualities, the feeling alit something new in Lovino, something at the same time both horrible and sanctifying, hellish and august. But for all its mind-reeling confusion tactics, the feeling erased his earlier anger, instead replacing it with a more embarrassing wont to stay with Antonio.

Before Lovino could dwell upon this arising feeling, their little snow globe of a world was shattered when the pair received a glare and a rude shove from a fellow classmate. Lovino quickly directed his eyes away from Antonio again, an odd sense sending his stomach squirming. Made aware of the fact that the two of them were standing in the middle of the stairwell, Antonio directed them to the side of the stairs—grabbing Lovino's upper arm and steering him along to do so—and away from the steady ebb and flow of people heading up and down the stairs and milling endlessly.

Lovino envied them; they were able to go through life uncaring and happy. They were the ones who were loved and appreciated and not overshadowed by an obnoxiously cheerful twin brother. They were nice and kind and didn't swear every two seconds. They weren't Lovino.

"Lovino," Antonio began, placing a hand on the Italian's shoulder just to have it shaken off. Sighing, he continued, "Look, I know I was a bit negligent of you during orientation, but why don't I make it up to you now? I'll help you find your room."

Lovino didn't agree, but he didn't make any adverse movement either. He would sooner be forced to eat potatoes than tell Antonio he needed his help, but he wouldn't deny to himself it would be a tad advantageous to have it in his arsenal.

"So what's your room number?" Antonio continued, apparently taking Lovino's silence as acquiesce.

"C209," Lovino mumbled, still not raising his hazel eyes to meet the more brilliant emerald ones.

Antonio nodded. "Okay, so the school is split up into wings by letter," he explained, "like A, B, C, D, and so on. You can tell which wing your class is in by the letter in front. The first number is the floor it's on, and the other two are the actual room number." Antonio winked devilishly at Lovino's pensive face. "It's not too hard, see?"

Lovino hummed noncommittally. It did make sense, and probably would have taken forever to find out by himself. Hell, he doubted Antonio had discovered it within his first two days here, either. Then again, he probably had a "senior buddy" who actually liked him. Nobody can resist that grin.

_You least of all_, a voice buried in his head whispered traitorously.

_Shut the fuck up_, Lovino responded. He wondered offhandedly if hearing voices in his head was a legitimate sign of insanity, or whether it meant he was simply beyond discombobulated. He decided to go with the latter, if only because it was simpler.

Pushing the irrelevant thoughts aside, Lovino silently thanked Antonio, for he would never venture to do it out loud. Only, then he realized he had another problem. Where the fuck was the C hallway?

"Still fucking confusing," Lovino cursed, glancing up under his lashes to see if Antonio got the hint. Upon seeing the blank face Antonio wore, the Italian cursed again, this time at Antonio's obliviousness. Grabbing Antonio's hand—heart thumping, blood pumping—and starting up the stairs, Lovino said, "Bastard, show me where the fuck it is already, damn it."

Antonio nearly tripped as his body was jolted into sudden movement, but quickly caught himself and leveled his pace with Lovino's. Much to Lovino's chagrin, the bastard grinned, secretly elated the usually self-managing Italian had stooped to asking him for help, no matter how backwards he had gone about it.

The Spaniard led his underclassman through the halls, turning one too many corners for the Italian's memory to sufficiently process, and thereby assuring Lovino he wouldn't memorize the route the first time through. Lovino wondered if Antonio was trying to confuse him on purpose to keep him asking for help, but decided against it on the basis that the airheaded Spaniard was too stupid for a plan as devious as that.

After what seemed like centuries, the two reached an opened wooden door, otherwise known as the entrance to Lovino's math room. A small plaque on the side of the door—which was an atrocious dull grey-green color—dubbed the room as C209, confirming the fact. The opened door gave off a false sense of freedom; Lovino knew he would feel trapped as soon as he entered it.

Lovino had released Antonio's hand with a jolt halfway through their journey to the already almost full class, so now they stood side by side in front of the door, just out of the way of the steadily thinning crowd.

When Antonio made no move to leave, Lovino shouldered his bag and went to walk forward. "Bye, bastard," he muttered over his shoulder as he filed listlessly into what was sure to be a boring forty-five minutes.

"Ah, Lovi, wait," Antonio called after him, stopping the Italian from entering the classroom last minute.

"What?" Lovino spat, turning to face his infuriating upperclassman. "And don't fucking call me that!"

Surprisingly, Antonio's face stayed straight, not at all lapsing into a pout at the disappointing words. "Can I listen to you play again?" he questioned, his voice so low and hesitant Lovino almost couldn't hear it.

Hope flared in Lovino's stomach, and along with it fear. Antonio was interested in him, and not only that, but he was also interested in the one thing Lovino could openly admit to himself he loved: his music. But—and there was always a "but"—he wasn't going to just open up for Antonio like he wanted.

His earlier inhibitions came back, his insecurities and self-loathing taking the forefront in his mind again. Lovino was certain as soon as Antonio started to pry the cracks in Lovino's rough exterior open he would turn his back on the hollow Italian.

"Fuck no," Lovino murmured, eyes betraying an unwarranted rage as they glared at the Spaniard, "now get to your fucking class, you bastard. You're gonna be late and I'm not gonna have that fucking pinned on me."

Antonio smiled at Lovino, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. There was a kind of tiredness in them, as if he was suddenly handed an overwhelming project and was simply surmising his way through it. Then, he nodded, and without another word, drifted off to his own room, pulling the strap of his slipping backpack back onto his shoulder as he turned.

Lovino watched his back until it disappeared into the crowd, an almost guilty feeling overcoming him. He couldn't help but think it was his fault Antonio looked that way.

Then there was the odd, consuming feeling from earlier, trying without much success to pry its way from the depths of Lovino and latch onto the Spaniard, forever tying to two together in an unbreakable bond. It was then Lovino identified the feeling with a hollow sense of dread. It was desire. But not the kind of desire which keeps one in bed all day with his or her lover, but a desire to allow Antonio into Lovino's little bubble, to be with him and accept him for who he was. _Lovino didn't want to change, but why couldn't he have Antonio too? _the feeling seemed to ask.

Shaking his head harshly and relishing in the sharp pain in his neck from the sudden movement, Lovino entered the classroom, taking one of the few seats left open. As he sat, he thought of the old vase sitting on the mantle of their underused fireplace. It was faded and cracked in some places, and looked like utter rubbish once the archaic feeling it radiated wore off. But, for all its underwhelming qualities, one would think it to hold something beyond beautiful, or something at least of higher caliber than the vase itself. But alas, no. The vase was empty, hollow and gathering nothing but flecks of dust as admirers.

So, too, did Lovino feel empty and useless like this nameless vase sitting alone at his house. It was a depressing thought, and one not warranting much else but sadness. But, he decided, it fit him. It was rather perfect actually, how alike that vase was to him, how much they had in common.

He only wished Antonio would come to realize it, too. Because then he would leave, he would leave Lovino alone for once, leave him to his misery and self-loathing and despair. _It's easier this way_, he thought, even as the desire reached forward from him. If he told himself to be miserable, it was much more unproblematic to find that he would probably be miserable even if he didn't want to be. That way, at least, he had a choice. Or a facsimile of one.

Lovino was content that way, though. Otherwise, he would seek something from life, and if he did that he was sure to only face disappointment. Always it was simpler to face reality than to dream.

Which is why he had to squash the dream that was slowly becoming Antonio. It was unrealistic to believe someone like the popular, well-rounded, amicable Spaniard could like someone like the abrasive, brutish, harsh Lovino. It wasn't a possibility, and Lovino didn't want his mind to begin to believe it was.

o.O.0.O.o

_The lyrics (which once again do not have to be translated, I hope) are from "That's What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction. The song itself isn't the best, but I love the message/lyrics. Mostly._

_Oh, and I put this at the beginning, too, but a heads up: I'm probably going to go through and edit a bit of the first five chapters after this. Nothing big should change, so don't worry. If there is, I'll notify it in the next chapter. Just saying this cus you'll probably be getting alerts for chapters 1-5, which aren't new ones. You don't have to read them over unless you want to. I'm just going to fix horrendous grammar mistakes and such (I've been a lazy editer lately…) and change some things that I noticed didn't flow upon rereading the story._

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	6. Tenudo

_Finally, a day late, chapter six. Sorry about that, but I was kinda busy yesterday. Longer chapter makes up for it? It was really hard to write, but once I started I couldn't find a place to start…. I even had to cut out Feliciano's part because it seemed pointless afterwards and made it too long. It was just a phonecall to Lovi, though. Their conversation will come later~!_

_Disclaimer: No._

o.O.0.O.o

_**Kan inte tänka jag står här och ler**_

o.O.0.O.o

Instrument case in one hand, bundle of music in the other, Lovino made his way down the hallway of the community center of his local college, his home away from home. Not that he really had another place to call home, but that was beside the point. It had unwillingly become the place he would visit for a respite from life, and he certainly needed one now.

Aggravatingly, Antonio and Lovino had fallen into a kind of schedule, a repetitive and comforting one, but at the same time annoying for the querulous Italian. Everyday they had lunch then walked together to Lovino's math class, and everyday Antonio asked the same thing:

"So when can I hear you play again, Lovi?"

With a regrettable blush and a stutter he'd never admit to himself he had, Lovino would respond with an irritable "never" and disappear into the depths of his classroom, which, although not much of what he'd call a safe haven, was certainly better than facing Antonio for a moment longer.

Lovino sighed as he reached his designated room. He somehow managed to turn the doorknob with his music-filled hand, pushing the door open with his hip when he found it generously unlocked. After making sure the door was closed behind him, Lovino set his case down on the chair within the emotionlessly pale room and his music on the stand in front of it.

Lovino didn't even know why he was still bothering with the Spaniard, let alone allowing him closer as the days passed by. He would begrudgingly admit he was attracted to Antonio—hell, the senior was hot by any standards—but besides the obvious inclinations, Lovino couldn't fathom _why_ he still felt the need to stay with him. Surely with the Spaniard annoying him nonstop Lovino would have long since made sure he was pushed far away from his psyche, but he had yet to do anything along those lines—if you didn't count Lovino being himself, that is. But, then again, Antonio wasn't much of one for picking up verbal and physical hints.

With a click Lovino opened his case, shaking his head to hopefully clear it of the increasingly dangerous thoughts seemingly determined to occupy it. Instead, he worked at putting his oboe together, glad to be able to play even if it meant just reading sheet music.

Ever since the _mishap_ in the music room on the first day of school, Lovino hadn't dared to practice there after school, fearing the eavesdropping Spaniard and his I'm-just-on-my-way-to-soccer-practice excuses.

Sighing for what felt like the millionth time that day, Lovino set his music open on the stand once his oboe was put together, turning it to his desired page. The piece of music was covered in pencil marks, those of both himself and his lessons teacher, A.K.A. his band director. He couldn't say he _liked_ her per say—he couldn't really say he liked much of anyone—but she was a motherly type, all soft smiles and warm encouragements. Until she got mad of, that is. Lovino never thought he would see a severely bipolar person, but that theory was proven wrong quite quickly within the span of their first lesson together.

Pushing the rather terrifying memory out of his mind, Lovino began playing, reading the music note for note on the page. He had to admit, it wasn't a bad composition; it was a baroque piece in A minor, which he had thought meant it would be a sadder one. He was unpleasantly surprised upon discovering it to be a mournfully cheerful song, the 12/8 meter giving it an unforgettable upbeat tune he could easily lapse into, but not so easily enjoy. It reminded him very much of the idea of a man at his daughter's wedding: at the same time proud and woeful, merry and mournful. Odd though it was, he couldn't say it was a bad piece.

_Andante grazioso_, it was labeled, literally translated as "gracious moving", in music terms meaning a fair amount of speed, but allowing the piece some feeling, being "gracious" towards it. He, of course, had to take it more slowly at first, if only because of the damn grace notes that were—he swore—there with the single intention of messing him up.

Whatever the devious plots of the little sixteenth note inserts, he continued playing, stopping every now and then to reexamine a part, to replay something, to curse himself for making a mistake. That is, he continued doing so until a loud rap on his door made him jump, a loud squeak emitting from his horn because of the sudden movement.

"Wrong room," Lovino called, because surely no one would bother to visit him here. He went back to playing, only getting out a measure or so before another knock sounded, making him again pause. He massaged his temples in annoyance, the interruption—most certainly an unwarranted one—grating on his already thin nerves.

When he again failed to answer the knock, another one came, this one more insistent than the first two.

With an aggravated huff, Lovino stomped to the door and yanked it open, ready to cuss out whoever had dared to interrupt him while he was actually enjoying himself—as much as he could anyway. But, upon seeing exactly who had done so, his English failed him.

"_Ch-che cosa?_" the disgruntled Italian questioned. His hazel eyes were wide, taking in the image in front of him: a way too cheerful Spaniard with a grin rivaling a hyena's stretching across his face. "How the hell did you find me?"

Antonio scratched the back of his head nervously, his grin fading to a hesitant smile upon seeing the angrily shocked look on Lovino's face. "I went to your house to find you," Antonio began, removing his hand and dropping it lifelessly at his side, "but Feliciano said you were here so . . ." he trailed off, shrugging as if the rest were obvious. Sadly, it was. Antonio _was_ right in front of Lovino after all.

Lovino's shock slowly faded, leaving in its place anger and annoyance. The damn Spanish bastard was stalking him! It wasn't enough he got to see Lovino in school everyday, but he had to follow him around in his personal time, too? Was he _trying_ to annoy Lovino?

Lovino's expression morphed into a glare aimed point blank for Antonio. He didn't move from his spot barring the entrance to the small room.

Antonio's nervous smile came back, and he glanced from the room behind Lovino to the Italian himself in quick succession. "Can I come in . . .?" he questioned hesitantly.

Lovino's face didn't waver. "Give me one good to do that," he demanded, shifting to cross his arms.

Without hesitating more than a second, Antonio shrugged. "I want to spend time with you," he explained with a genuine smile that sent waves of happiness emanating out of the pit of Lovino's stomach.

Lovino blinked. It seems his inner turmoil wouldn't get a break, but rather would be made like a blender on the highest setting without its cap on. Antonio wanted to spend time with him? No, he must be lying. There was no way Antonio would want to be with Lovino, let alone with someone like Feliciano free and hang-out-worthy. Of all things, it wasn't what Lovino had expected Antonio's response to be. In fact, he hadn't even believed Antonio to _have_ a proper response. No, Lovino revised, Antonio _didn't_ have one, for obviously the one he gave was a blatant lie.

Hazel eyes narrowed to slits. "Liar," Lovino spat.

Rather than flinch at the intended venom in Lovino's voice, Antonio straightened up to his full height. "I'm not lying," he claimed, emerald eyes boring into Lovino's form with an intense kind of determination, "believe it or not, Lovino, but I think you're entertaining company, and I _would_ like to spend more time with you." He stood his ground, peering down at the Italian with a resolute gaze. "I'm not leaving until you let me hear you play."

Lovino's face morphed into a scowl to hide the tremors of excitement and hope whooshing through him. "Then I guess you're stuck here," he growled, retreating once again into the room. He slammed the door in Antonio's face as soon as he was backed up far enough to do such so as not to allow the Spaniard the opportunity to come in after him. He rushed over to his case and packed up his oboe more quickly than he ever had before, not even bothering to clean it—though he was sure he would regret that later—before slamming the case closed, gathering his music and bursting out the door again.

Only, he met some resistance. With a resounding smack, the door came into contact with a hard surface. The grunt of pain upon this bang told Lovino exactly what he had hit. Sure enough, when he inched around the door, Lovino found Antonio clutching his forehead in pain, rubbing it and wincing periodically.

Lovino snorted at the sight, and the Spaniard looked up at his assailant with a hurt look. "Ow, Lovi, that hurt . . ." he whined childishly.

"Serves you right for stalking me," Lovino grunted, walking towards the direction of the stairs without waiting for Antonio. "Now come on, you're driving me home."

Antonio, still holding his forehead, hurried to catch up with the Italian. "Why? Not that I mind, but . . ."

"You forced me to leave early," Lovino said as they reached the stairs, "and the next bus won't come for a half hour at least. So I'm fucking hijacking your car, damn it." He turned to push against the door leading to the stairwell with his hip, his hands currently occupied in carrying his music and instrument. The door swung open easily at his will as it was built to be smooth on the hinges in order to enable students traveling like him to ease it open.

Antonio hummed in understanding as the two began descending the two flights of stairs between them and the entrance to the university. "Why do you come here anyway?" Antonio questioned. "I mean, can't you just practice at home or school or something?"

Lovino reached the first landing, rolling his eyes as he turned the corner. "I can't practice at school everyday, idiot. There's jazz band rehearsal and the afterschool chorus thing in the music room some days." He felt the pulse in his neck quicken slightly as the other reason he had been pointedly avoiding the music room came to mind. He wasn't lying; the other two were legitimate reasons. He just happened to be omitting part of the truth.

The two reached the ground floor and treaded across the damp tiles standing between them and the door. A glance out the glass door explained the wet tiles easily: it was raining. It wasn't a downpour, but rather just a kind of shower too light to be called rain, and yet too heavy to be misting. With nothing more than a deepening of his scowl, Lovino positioned his oboe case over his head to block the droplets, the sheet music carefully protected between it and his head, and pushed open the door in much the same manner as he had earlier.

"And there's Feliciano at home," Lovino offered in explanation as he stood propped against the door to keep it open, waiting for the Spaniard to pass him in an uncharacteristic act of kindness, "he's like you, always demanding to hear me for some damn reason. Fucking annoying." They darted out into the rain, Lovino falling back to let Antonio lead him to where he parked.

"You mean because you're good?" Antonio asked in amusement, grabbing the Italian's arm to direct him the opposite way he had been going. Lovino felt his cheeks heat slightly and yanked his arm free with a noise that was half huff, half growl. Antonio simply chuckled.

Lovino didn't respond to the compliment, and instead followed the Spaniard into the large parking lot in silence. It wasn't because he didn't know he had some talent in music that made him so hesitant to play for those he was closest to. He knew he was at least fairly able, what with how much time he gave to practicing he'd better be good, if not a bit above average. Rather, Lovino didn't want to share something that was personal for him, something wholly his and his alone. And although he knew he was being selfish by hoarding the music all for himself, he was at the same time protecting himself. Music was his heart; it had always been his philosophy not to wear it on his sleeve.

Antonio directed Lovino to a small red car on the outskirts of the lot, and pulled out his keys, head ducked to the rain, as Lovino walked to the passenger side.

"Ah, Lovino," Antonio spoke suddenly, "that door's broken. You'll have to climb over the driver's side."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Lovino exclaimed.

Antonio smiled apologetically, the simple gesture answer enough for Lovino. With a number of colorful swears murmured under his breath, Lovino walked back towards Antonio just as the Spaniard had pulled the driver's side door open. Shoving his instrument and music into the hands of the waiting senior, Lovino crawled into the cramped space with irritation written clear over his entire being.

Quite a few swears and banged appendages later, Lovino was seated in the passenger seat, arms crossed and music materials arranged haphazardly on the floor at his feet. Antonio slid into the driver's seat smoothly, the easy transition setting a scowl on Lovino's lips.

Antonio slammed his door shut, the sound of the rain fading to the muffled sound of the water bouncing off the windshield. The inside of the vehicle was warm and dry unlike the late summer showers and cool air outside, the combination reminding all fall was fast approaching. Lovino inhaled deeply, the scent of the old leather, pine mint air freshener, and Antonio's own characteristic smell rushing up into his nose and to his brain, the odor immediately calming his unusually fast heartbeat.

Beside him, Antonio had pulled down his visor to reveal the mirror, and was inspecting the angry mark left on his forehead by the door. He pulled back his bangs to get a better view, the resulting clarity only making it look worse.

"Lovi," he whined, turning to his passenger with a childish pout and eyes twinkling with a saccharine sweet innocence, "kiss it better."

Lovino's cheeks flamed in that unattractive way, reddening in embarrassing splotches rather than dusting pink. "Fuck no," he managed, "and anyways—" Lovino pulled up his shirt to reveal the still-visible purpling bruises dotting his stomach "—you've got nothing to complain about."

Lovino watched with a sick kind of amused guilt as Antonio's face immediately dropped, his eyes losing their mischievous luster.

"I'm sorry, Lovi," Antonio murmured with an uncharacteristic melancholy note in his usually peppy voice.

Lovino watched Antonio as he glanced towards the ugly marks and then forward, eyes refusing to meet the Italian's. He let his shirt fall to cover the bruises. He hadn't expected this kind of genuine guilt from Antonio. Maybe a halfhearted apology that would undoubtedly come with Antonio's pseudo revelation upon hearing Lovino's music, but never something as heartfelt as that had seemed.

Lovino's gaze returned to the droplets running down the windshield like tears. "It doesn't matter," he said tiredly, "you were right, anyways.

"No," Antonio said resolutely.

Lovino glanced sideways at Antonio, widened eyes immediately meeting those of the Spaniard next to him. The look in the emerald fire gaze sent his stomach churning unsettlingly, and despite his strong desire to do so, Lovino found himself unable to break his eyes from Antonio's.

"What I said was wrong," he continued. "You shouldn't be more like your brother. I don't know why I think that, but . . . Lovino, when I first met you, I believed that if you were more friendly, more open, more . . . well, more of anything than what you were already were, you'd be better off." Antonio shook his head. "I don't you know, maybe you would be. But I don't care. I think there's something in you, Lovino, something _beautiful_, and I think I saw that something when you were playing in the music room that day, but really I don't know."

He paused for a moment, a number of expressions playing out across his tanned features. When he had finally figured out what to say, he continued, "What I'm trying to say is that, Lovino, please don't become more like your brother, please. I'm just afraid . . . I'm afraid that if you do, that beautiful thing will be lost to me forever.

"Real selfish, huh?" Antonio questioned with a half-smile, the gesture not reaching his eyes.

"No," Lovino managed to whisper, shaking his head, "I'm the selfish one."

Antonio sighed, finally breaking his gaze from Lovino, and instead staring out into the rain.

Lovino, though, kept his eyes on Antonio for a moment longer, hazel orbs studying the senior pensively. They roved over a strong chin, lips set in oddly downturned lips, a straight nose, pink cheeks, and finally halting as they reached green eyes. Their usual light was somewhat dimmer than normal, the lines surrounding them a bit harder. It was odd seeing Antonio in such a state; determination and passion—sure, they weren't abnormal. But the other side, the confused, even sad side, was certainly an abnormality, a sight so rare it could have been labeled a miracle, or maybe the opposite of one: a catastrophe.

Swallowing thickly, Lovino turned his gaze back out the windshield, the rain still falling evenly, and splashing into the many puddles now lining the road.

"Drive," Lovino commanded tiredly, "I want to go home."

Really, he'd go anywhere to escape this awkward situation. Lovino felt insignificant beside Antonio, like he wasn't worthy now. The Spaniard gave a huge, moving speech, and all he'd managed was one little self-deprecating sentence. It was a depressing thought, one that stuck with him the entire ride back to his house.

Not more than ten minutes later, the two found themselves parked in front of a large white colonial. Muttering a muted thanks under his breath, Lovino went to open his door, only to find it stuck fast. Cursing creatively, he turned to Antonio.

The Spaniard obeyed Lovino's silent demand, exiting the car without so much as a glance Lovino's way. By now the rain had reached a steady downfall, the water making a startlingly loud noise as it bounced off the car and flowed down the street and into the busy drains. The water wetted Antonio's hair into a flat mop as Lovino climbed out of the car, getting himself just as wet in the process. Lovino turned away as soon as he was completely free of the vehicle, and started walking off to his house without another word.

"Lovino," Antonio called after him, "you're not selfish. How can you be when you won't even live your own life to the fullest?"

Lovino had paused without turning back to hear the words exiting Antonio's mouth. They echoed in his head as he continued down the path without a response, nothing but the sound of the rain and Antonio's car driving away to keep him grounded.

o.O.0.O.o

"_Kan inte tänka jag står här och ler" (I can't think, I just stand here and smile): "Valkommen In" by Veronica Maggio. (great song, btw, check it out. There's a fem!Sweden video to it on youtube~!)_

_Is tired and needs a shower… will edit later… GAH IT'S TEN AND I STILL NEED TO SHOOOOWWWEEERRR! Nuuuh! Then watch the Big Bang Theory XD_

_Ah, and if anyone wants, the piece Lovino was playing is called Sonata in A minor by Georg Phillip Telemann (btw, the missing e in George is not a typo). And you can watch it here (just take out the spaces): www . youtube watch?v= AxsuYB7InSs_


	7. Staccato

_Mild humor…? Who knew it was possible in the colossal entity of depression? XD Eh, the Italian twins are fun to write~! Though I'm not too good at their dialogue…. Thoughts and opinions…? _

_Disclaimer: If you've read this far you have to be enjoying the story enough to ignore any copyright shit, right?_

_Enjoy~_

o.O.0.O.o

_**Owner of a lonely heart, much better than an owner of a broken heart**_

o.O.0.O.o

_How can you be selfish when you won't even live your life to the fullest?_

The words echoed endlessly in Lovino's head as he pried open his front door, the setting sun tinting the pouring rain a deep red-orange through the small gaps in the otherwise dismally grey sky.

Lovino couldn't bring himself to agree with the words. Of course he was selfish. He examined himself enough, looked at himself and all his own faults and missteps, ignoring those of others, all of it leading to him hating himself. Because of that there must have been some form of overwhelming self-centering state to his mind. It was a kind of vicious cycle—something he seemed to have a surplus of—Lovino had himself trapped in: Lovino hated himself for hating himself.

It was because of that Lovino chose not to live his life to the fullest. What did that phrase even mean, anyway? Take risks? Live like there's no tomorrow? Well, believe it or not, there _was_ a tomorrow, and, yes, the things you did "yesterday" are going to affect this "tomorrow" which is to come. There was no escaping your past, your blunders, or your mistakes, so why make more of them than you had to? They're only going to cause pain when it comes down to it, and no one wants more pain than they have to bear, Lovino being no exception.

Some people preached that it was through this pain people achieved their greatest things. Lovino disagreed, claiming it was a load of crap people used to comfort those whose lives sucked, to make them feel like it will get better with time, with wisdom, with age. They were hopeful. Lovino _wasn't_. Instead he was what you might call a pessimistic realist. One like this is one who believed in the worst-case scenario of a realistic circumstance, or maybe the most realistic outcome of a pessimistic happening. Whichever way you spun it, it was the same kind of philosophy. This mindset brought Lovino to this conclusion: his life wasn't going to get much more amazing than it was, so why bother trying to push it there? He felt no desire to be—nor did he think himself capable of being—a pariah. He didn't want to be someone at the head of great change, or a great discovery, or to be the face of the newest big thing. What Lovino wanted with the utmost desire was to shrink into the depths of society and get lost in the plethora of other "unique" people with "unique" talents.

With those thoughts and other similarly pessimistically realistic ones, Lovino stepped into the front hall, shaking off the water coating him much like a dog, the droplets landing carelessly across the room as the door slammed shut with a bang behind him. He winced at the resounding clang.

At the sound, Feliciano's head appeared over the back of the couch from where he was obviously lounging, his golden eyes widening as they took in Lovino's soaked appearance and the dirty state of the hall. "Hey, no fair~!" Feliciano protested air headedly. "I'll have to clean that up now~." He pouted childishly, the flash of juvenility reminding Lovino of Antonio's earlier foolishness, of his happiness and carefree laughs. With a deep scowl, Lovino quickly pushed the comparison from his already overflowing mind. An odd pain echoed in his chest as the image of Antonio's piteously concerned expression from just moments ago entered his mind suddenly, the attack seeming much like a drenching downpour just before a joyous picnic. Just as suddenly as it entered, though, the feeling was gone, hurriedly banished from Lovino's mind with a deep-set scowl occupying the Italian's face.

Lovino rolled his eyes at Feliciano's complaint. For how responsible Feliciano had become in the absence of their mother, he was surprisingly lazy. He usually did the bare minimum needed to make something flawless, the effort just enough to make it appear as if effort went into it, but missing the line within a hair's breadth. Only when it came to his painting did Feliciano seem to apply himself wholeheartedly; the extraordinary works of art couldn't have possibly been half-assed, they were so astounding.

Lovino had never understood this determined side his usually scatterbrained twin seemed to have when it came to art. Sure, Lovino was well enough immersed in practicing and enjoying his music, but he couldn't say he was enveloped in it to a point where putting all his being into mastering a composition was necessary, nor desired. He guessed he had developed the same kind of perfectionist laziness Feliciano had taken up, putting in the time and work needed to make the appearance of perfection without actually achieving it.

"Tough shit," Lovino growled, marching through the living room and to the stairs, ready to retreat to his room for the duration of the night. At least there, once comfortably secure beneath the fluffy azure duvet, he would be safe from prying Spaniards, airheaded brothers, and assholes of grandfathers.

"Aw, Lovi, so mean~," Feliciano whined. He sat up on the couch completely and tossed what looked like a magazine on the coffee table. His brows scrunched together as he examined Lovino over. "Where's your instrument?" the chestnut-haired freshman questioned suddenly.

Lovino paused in placing his foot on the first step, blood freezing. Only then did he notice the absence of the familiar weight of his case in hand, the appendages suspiciously lacking the feel of the black leather slipped through them. A cold shock surged through him as a single thought pierced through the other befuddled ones like a lightening strike in an overcast sky.

_I forgot my oboe in Antonio's car._

"Shit." Lovino turned his head to face Feliciano, eyes wide in terror. "Shit, shit, shit, shit . . ." he repeated like a mantra as he turned again, this time towards the arch leading to their kitchen, and sprinted through it, reaching for the phone as soon as he emerged into the room. Lovino racked his brain for a phone number desperately, the dial tone ringing impatiently in his ear. No matter how many memories of the Spaniard he worked through, though, nothing came to mind. They had never exchanged numbers, Lovino realized with a groan.

How ironic; the fact that Lovino had pushed Antonio away to a point where they didn't even know one another's phone numbers was to be his downfall.

"Feliciano," Lovino called into the living room, "do you know Antonio's cell number?"

There was a pregnant pause, and Lovino began to tap his foot impatiently, scowl deepening with each passing second. Then, finally, Lovino heard a rustling. A moment later, Feliciano appeared in the doorway, leaning against the arch lazily. "Why do you need Big Brother Toni's number?"

Lovino frowned. "None of your fu—" he broke off, eyes narrowing incredulously. "_Big Brother Toni?_ What the fucking hell, Feli?" Lovino gazed at his brother in shock as the younger twin ve-ed innocently.

Feliciano smiled. "He's like a big brother~," he cheered airily.

Lovino felt an unsettling mix of excitement and failure. On the one hand, he should have been affronted to be sold out as "big brother figure" by a senior at their high school, the likes of who Feliciano had only met a few weeks ago. But, on the other hand, he was inwardly grinning like an idiot at the thought that Feliciano only thought of Antonio as a brother, nothing more, which meant _Lovino_ could have the Spaniard for himself.

Then there was the third proverbial hand, the one which was terrified of how Lovino was reacting to the second one. He shouldn't be that dependent on Antonio, shouldn't be pining for him like a lovesick teenager, no matter how fitting the uncanny analogy.

Pushing down the rising feelings with a familiar scowl, Lovino shook his head at Feliciano's childish reasoning, trying to recreate what he figured would be a natural reaction. "Whatever," he muttered. "Do you have it or not?"

Feliciano's smile became saccharine, and a devious glint shone in his eye. Most would think the innocent looking Italian to be just that: unbelievably naïve and ingenuous. But, as only a choice few had the "privilege" to know, Feliciano used that childlike face for evil, manipulating those around him with the same ease as a puppeteer maneuvers his mannequins across a stage for the enjoyment of all watching. Of course, the things he achieved in this manner were never _evil _per say, but they certainly benefitted him more than anyone else.

"I'll tell you if you if _you_ tell _me_ why you need it~," Feliciano sing-songed, crossing his arms.

Lovino lifted his head to the ceiling in an exasperated kind of prayer, shaking his head at the heavens as if some divine power up there could help him in some way. When no one descended augustly from the sky, Lovino lolled his head back down to meet Feliciano's expectant gaze, finally hanging up the phone with a sharp click.

"After _you_ pointed Antonio to the university," Lovino began, emphasizing the word "you" in a scornful manner, "he came and bugged me 'til I left." He crossed his arms to mirror his brother, though comparably his stance was more defensive than demanding. "I forced him to drive me home, and I must have left my instrument case on the floor of the damn deathtrap." Lovino paused for a moment, staring at his brother's intrigued face. "So give me his fucking phone number, damn it!" he demanded, throwing his arms down to his sides, his hands forming fists in an attempt to contain the already unleashed anger. His face reddened, for once, in a way that was not embarrassment.

It was then Lovino heard the single most irritating phrase he of the evening.

Feliciano grinned. "I don't have it." With that single statement, Feliciano bolted out of the room, his tinkling laugh lingering as he himself left. Not seconds later Lovino heard the pattering of feet on the stairs, then the slamming of a door somewhere upstairs.

Lovino's face turned a startling shade of crimson as he watched his brother retreat from the room, glaring at the long-gone image of the younger Italian twin standing in the doorway. Slowly, the anger dissipated, flowing out of him as rational thoughts once again began drifting through his mind. One of those rational thoughts—though maybe a tad less so than some of the others which accompanied it—was this: _Wait—why doesn't Feliciano have Antonio's number if the bastard likes him?_

It didn't make any sense to Lovino that Feliciano wouldn't have received Antonio's phone number at some point in time. Certainly the Spaniard would have made sure Feliciano had his number just in case the Italian wished to invite him somewhere, somewhere like a date. An echo of Antonio's phone call to their house rang through Lovino's mind. He must have had the Italians' number at one point, so why didn't they have his?

Suddenly Lovino remembered the Senior Buddy Program. Antonio must have received their number as part of the program, maybe so he could contact them over the summer or some such nonsense. _How creepy_, Lovino thought with a shudder.

But, there was still the mystery as to why Feliciano _didn't_ have Antonio's cell number. Why wouldn't Antonio have given it to him? It was curious, very much so.

"Hey, Lovi?"

Lovino looked up from his plethora of thoughts to see Feliciano poking his head around the doorway. The elder twin's scowl returned. "What?" he growled.

"I have Francis's number if you want~," Feliciano offered. "I bet he has Antonio's~." He calmly entered the kitchen with a cautious air, more than aware of his brother's violent ways.

Lovino wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mention of the perverted Frenchman. Most think of Francis as being suave and chic, but Lovino could only think of one word to describe him: sleazy. "No way in hell am I talking to that fuckface," Lovino muttered, using his newest nickname for the blonde with scornful repulsion. He sighed. "I'll just get it from him tomorrow before school so I can have it in time for band. _Dio_ knows what that crazy lady will do to me if I forget the damn thing."

Feliciano giggled at his brother's characteristic reaction, but cut off with a whiny "ow" as a fist met his arm with a fair amount of force.

"And that's for earlier," Lovino growled, glaring at his twin.

Feliciano rubbed the spot with a pout. "Lovi, that really hurt~," he whined with watery golden eyes.

Lovino merely rolled his own hazel orbs. Suddenly, his gaze became straight, staring at Feliciano curiously. "Hey, Feli," Lovino questioned quietly, "why don't you have Antonio's number?"

Feliciano's face became oddly ponderous, the expression not quite fitting the Italian's usual outward appearance. "I haven't really seen Antonio besides at lunch since the very beginning of school~," he responded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. After a small pause, the younger Italian twin directed his gaze back at Romano. "And when I do, he asks about you."

Lovino pinked again, this time from his usual embarrassment rather than overwhelming anger. "Wh-what do you mean?" he stuttered.

"He just wanted to know about you—you know, what you're like, _Fratello_~." Feliciano smiled airily. "I think he likes you."

Lovino's eyes widened in disbelief, and, he swore, his jaw nearly dropped so low it unhinged. He felt completely disheveled, like a fish out of water, a countryman in the city. _Antonio_ like _Lovino_? Not a possibility, not in any sense of the word, not in any language imaginable. Lovino was abrasive where Antonio was amicable; he was rude where the other was friendly; he was selfish where the other was generous. They were completely opposite, on polar ends of the spectrum. The term "opposites attract" drifted through Lovino's baffled mind, but he banished the unwanted philosophy aside. There was no room for hopefulness in Lovino's head, not now, not ever. Hopefulness would only inevitably lead to hurt, and no one, Lovino especially, wanted hurt.

Lovino shook his head sadly at Feliciano, smiling wanly. "He doesn't, Feli, trust me, he doesn't."

Feliciano's concerned eyes followed Lovino as he trudged out of the room and up the stairs, emerging into the gloomy hallway with an equally melancholy attitude. A moment later, Lovino reached his room with a rush of relief. Not even pausing in his steady, solemn march across the bedroom, Lovino stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed with not so much as a sound.

No, he was not to cry with retched sobs of agony that night, but rather with silent tears of pain.

o.O.0.O.o

_Owner of a lonely heart, much better than an owner of a broken heart—Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes. Yay for oldies..? Not a huge fan of most myself, especially not this one, but I heard it on the satellite radio the other day (80's on 8…?) and thought it fit…_

_As always, TBE (to be edited). The one downside to finishing chapters/posting them at night: you're always too lazy to read back over it completely more than skimming… I mean, the first part(s) I already edited a lot, cus those I wrote fri/sat/sun cus I had nothing better to do this weekend… The band I'm in at the local university is finally over for the school year~! Yay~! Now all I have left is tryouts for next year on June 3__rd__…. wish me luck…?_

_Hm, not a challenge, but can you guess who the band teacher is? XD I'll give you a hint: her and the orchestra teacher are close. Not that you know who he is, but… meh. Have fun with your guesses~_

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	8. Decrescendo

_Chapter eight~! I can't believe it's this long already… two months, wow… (or, almost, but whatever). Yay~!_

_Oh, and btw there may be quite a few mistakes with homonyms, as I found a few while writing and reading back immediately, but I may not have caught them all. I spent all weekend working, so I'm kind of exhausted and am therefore more prone to stupid things like that… (In the AN at the bottom I almost put "aloud" instead of "allowed")._

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be. _

_Enjoy~!_

o.O.0.O.o

_**Pas**__**ó un buen día junto a mí. Parecía que quería quedarse aquí. No había manera de echarle. **_

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino was screwed.

By now it was sixth period and Antonio had yet to show his face in school as far as Lovino knew. This, of course, meant the now nearly livid but mostly nervous Italian had yet to receive his oboe from the front seat of Antonio's car, also meaning he had nothing for band. Screwed indeed.

On the plus side, at least he was free from Antonio for the day. Or, he told himself it was a plus side, though he was beginning to think it wasn't as much of a relief as he wished it to be. Pinging oddly in his chest was an unfamiliar feeling, one much like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was almost akin to the type of feeling you get when you're forgetting something as you rush out the door, the nagging uneasy part of you that simply won't rest until you discover much later what that thing is. Lovino was afraid he was beginning to realize what that something was, and, no matter how much he tried to deny it, his mind kept hypothesizing the same thing: he missed Antonio.

It was a terrifying thought, on that chilled him to the core. Lovino couldn't become dependent on Antonio, not matter how badly he wanted to just throw himself at the Spaniard wholeheartedly, to share all of his secrets and inner thoughts with the older boy, to do friendly things and actually get to know him, to care. But he couldn't. Lovino couldn't allow himself to do such unspeakable things, because when Antonio finally did figure out there was truly nothing within Lovino, he would leave. Lovino didn't want the heartache, didn't want his world to come crashing down and destroy the perfect little cycle he was contentedly trapped in, no matter how fragile the thin glass his path rested on.

The bell rang obnoxiously, successfully driving the terror-ridden thoughts seemingly hell-bent on sending the "innocent" Italian into a panic attack. He now had a new worry, however, for this was also signaling the start of what was to be his imminent doom: band class.

Lovino watched nervously as the young brunette woman standing on the podium placed strategically in front of the acoustically structured room ran down the attendance list, glancing up from her book periodically and checking names off as she went, each mark of her pencil ticking down the ever looming moment when she would inevitably reach Lovino's own name. He had never labeled himself as an overly religious person, merely one who attended the Sunday mass with the reluctance common in most young people these days, but in this moment he sent a desperate prayer to heaven that she would somehow miss his name, skip over it, something. Hell, even a fire drill would be better than the embarrassment and disappointment he was sure to be experiencing soon.

There was always the heaven sent off chance she wouldn't notice him, but the young teacher had taken an odd liking to Lovino within the first week of school, basically ever since he had approached her with the question of private lessons, thereby nearly eliminating that possibility. His grandfather was too much of a cheap prick to pay for Lovino's lessons himself—really, he just didn't believe Lovino to truly be worth paying for; he thought his grandson was a bad musician, which may or may not be because Lovino refused to invite the severe man to hear him play—so the freshman had taken it upon himself to find a means of something similar. It would have been better to find a master of his instrument, but his band teacher was the next best thing. However, no matter the circumstance, Lovino doubted he would escape her sharp eye.

And, as Lovino had so pessimistically predicted, the striking eyes of Ms. Hedevary eventually fell upon him. Those green eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Lovino, taking in the absence of probably the most important thing to have in a band class. She was a nice woman usually, very friendly and warm, and acting much like a doting mother to her students. Her wide smiles and sparkling eyes had a kind of welcoming warmth to them, drawing you to her even if you didn't want to be. That is, she was all that as long as you didn't get on her bad side, the side that wasn't afraid of using more than a little force to get her ideas across. Gilbert—an unwilling member of the percussion section—was her favorite target, but Lovino knew for a fact that each member of the Bad Touch Trio had received a smack from her infamous frying pan at least once during his high school career.

Lovino, personally, had never crossed onto the "dark side" in the Hungarian woman's eye, but had instead drifted unwillingly into the completely polar opposite end of her spectrum. Ms. Hedervary seemed to like him more than most of her students, an odd feat, certainly, since most of his other teachers took the opposite approach when it came to the choleric Italian. Lovino in turn had developed a sort of liking towards her, even if it was only more tolerance than anything. He had always had a soft spot for women—meaning he didn't hate them immediately upon interacting with them, unlike it seemed to be with men—and she had simply melted that side of him, reaching farther into him than anyone but perhaps Antonio—as scary as that thought was—had.

"Lovino," Ms. Hedevary chastised reproachfully, peering down her nose at the sheepish Italian, "where is your instrument?" She placed her hands on her hips in a scolding manner, wrinkling her conservative flower-print dress at the sides.

"W-well, it's kind of a long story . . ." Lovino trailed off, looking off to the side and away from the accusing gaze of the crazy Hungarian teacher. How could he explain he had left it in the car of his sort-of-friend because he was too distracted by the weird conversation and consequential feelings from said conversation, and that that exact sort-of-friend had chosen that day to miss school suspiciously along with the rest of the Bad Touch Trio? That was more than Lovino wanted to admit to himself, let alone to his band teacher in front of the entire class.

Ms. Hedevary examined him once more, this time roving his face for signs of foul play. She must have seen something there, though Lovino hadn't a clue of what it could be, because her gaze suddenly softened. "You'll tell me after class." It was a statement, not a question.

Lovino nodded, letting out a breath of relief. He was getting off, at least for now. As Ms. Hedevary began the class, conducting the students in a simple warm-up consisting of a Concert Bb scale and arpeggio, Lovino tried to think of _why_ Antonio would have chosen today of all days to skip school with his bastardly friends. When his mind yielded nothing that wasn't pushed immediately out of it with a vehemence Lovino usually only directed towards physical beings, he settled back in his stiff black chair, resigned to forty-five minutes of listening to high school band level music.

o.O.0.O.o

Unbeknownst to Lovino, across town Antonio was lying in his bed with more than a legitimate reason for skipping: a killer hangover.

The Spaniard groaned and pulled the comforter farther over his head as the curtains were blown forward by the wind yet again, the movement sending a bolt of light directly into his eyes and straight up through his head in the form of white hot pain. His tongue felt like dried sandpaper in his mouth, and his throat ached for more water, though he knew he had already downed a good pint or two that morning.

A similar moan echoed across the room from the nearly comatose Spaniard, the sound coming from the direction of a small couch not far from the bed upon which Francis was lying. He wasn't much better off than Antonio himself, though he still seemed to be able to look put-together appearance-wise even when he obviously wasn't physically. Antonio wondered off-handedly how the Frenchman managed to do something like that so effortlessly, but the thought was pushed away as a new wave of pain sent his brain pounding against his skull in protest to the tight confines.

Antonio sat up while still clutching his head mournfully, the blanket falling down to pool at his waist and revealing his upper body to be generously bare, the lean muscles writhing under tan skin as he adjusted into a more comfortable position. He let himself collapse against the hard wood of his headboard as noises echoed up from the kitchen below.

In hindsight, maybe they shouldn't have downed all those drinks the night previous. As soon as Antonio had dropped off Lovino at his house, he had called Gilbert and Francis and told them to meet him at _El Cubano_, a small bar in town with a few homemade-style dishes based off traditional Cuban food. Antonio's older cousin Carlos owned the place, and had told his staff to allow the teens a few free drinks whenever they decided to visit despite their underage status. Of course, that had been before the two had a falling out a few months ago, but Carlos had yet to repeal the order so the trio made use of the easy access to decent booze often.

Though not often enough, apparently, Antonio decided as he held his pounding head.

"Remind me, _cher_," Francis addressed Antonio from across the room, "how did you convince me to drink that tequila with you?" He sat up slowly to face the deflated Spaniard seated across the room.

Antonio was saved from having to answer when less than a second later the door to his room burst open, and in came Gilbert carrying two glasses of water and what looked like a bottle of beer. The Prussian handed off each of the water-filled glasses—which Antonio nearly gulped down—and took a swig of the beer bottle, making a lewd smacking noise when it parted from his lips.

"Cus you had already downed enough wine to flood the bar," Gilbert supplied, "and were stupid enough to want more." He took another generous gulp of beer. "I'm tellin' you guys, the best thing for a hangover is more alcohol."

Antonio's stomach churned at the thought of putting back in more of what had too recently come up. "Easy enough for you to say," Antonio groaned from the bed, "you're barely hungover." In fact, the only evidence of any foul play the night before was the reddish tint to the whites of his eyes, the effect barely caught due to the usual red color of the irises.

Gilbert grinned. "The awesome me was smart enough to only drink beer," he pointed out.

Francis snorted. "More like you have been drinking since you were old enough to hold a bottle," he replied derisively. He shook his head. "'Smart' is not a word I would ever use to describe you, _mon ami_."

Gilbert pretended to appear hurt, but a devilish glint echoed in his ruby eyes. "The awesome me not smart? I don't know how you come up with this stuff, Franny," he whined exaggeratingly, the act making him appear much like an odd mutated punk baby. He plopped down next to Francis, the movement sending the beer sloshing dangerously in his nearly full bottle.

Antonio jerked up, panic written clear in his emerald eyes. "Careful, Gil," he warned. "If my parents saw a beer stain on my carpet they'd have a heart attack."

Francis piqued a delicately manicured eyebrow. "If your parents knew half of the stuff you did in your free time, they would each have multiple heart attacks," the Frenchman reminded, sipping at his water as if it were a delicate glass of wine.

Antonio banged his head back against the headboard dejectedly, wincing from the resulting ache emanating from both outside and inside his already splitting skull. "Devout Catholics," he groaned, "don't remind me."

Gilbert raised his bottle in the air, directing it at Antonio accusingly. "Hey. At least you don't have Ludwig; he's worse than my parents when I get in trouble," he grunted.

Francis gave a little laugh. "What, can he tell you are going to find yourself living in his basement when you are older?" he asked amusedly.

Antonio laughed.

Gilbert glared half-heartedly. "Oh hardy-har."

Suddenly, Antonio pushed himself out from under the cocoon of heat provided by the heavy blankets. "I'm getting some Tylenol. I'm guessing you want some, Francis?" he called behind him as he entered the small bathroom.

"_Oui. S'il vous plaît_."

"Gilbert?"

"Hell no! The awesome me is way beyond unawesome pain killers."

"Of course," Antonio yelled back sarcastically, "how could I not have known?" He opened the medicine cabinet he kept supplied with pain medication just for this kind of thing and pulled out the small white bottle with a colorful label. The Spaniard walked back to the bed with the bottle in hand, spilling three of the little pills into his hand as he did so. Grabbing his water off the nightstand, he gulped them down graciously, then threw the small bottle across to Francis, who caught it with two hands.

"_Merci_."

Antonio hummed in response, sitting down on the unmade bed again, the soft mattress dipping with his added weight. He leaned back onto his hands, his feet hanging lifelessly from the end of the bed and chest displayed for all to see.

His gaze found the ceiling, green eyes tracing the pattern there absentmindedly. "I wonder what Lovi's doing~?" Antonio hummed thoughtfully.

Francis glanced up at his friend. He set the glass to the side, sighing as he did so. "You are beyond obsessed, _mon ami_," Francis uttered.

Antonio picked his head up so his chin rested on his chest, pouting at the Frenchman. "Not obsessed," he claimed, sitting up completely. "He's just so cute~."

Francis lifted an eyebrow. "Cute," he said, "was not my first choice of words." Gilbert snorted, nodding in agreement.

The Spaniard simply smiled. "Ah, but he really is," he assured his two disbelieving friends. "The way he blushes when he's flustered, and how he says the exact opposite thing he means, and how he has somehow turned 'bastard' into a pet-name…" he trailed off.

Francis and Gilbert exchanged looks.

Antonio sighed again. "You can't see it." It wasn't a question.

Gilbert shook his head. "You're crazy, Toni. Bat shit insane."

Francis pushed half-heartedly at the German's arm. "Crazy, yes." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I do believe it is more crazy in love."

o.O.0.O.o

"So, Lovino, what's wrong?" Ms. Hedevary interrogated Lovino. The clangs and bangs of instruments being deconstructed and stowed in their cases for safe-keeping echoed through the room, louder voices slowly replacing the softer murmurs as they were safely placed in lockers and students gathered near the doors to wait eagerly for the bell to ring.

Lovino averted his eyes from the bright green gaze of the Hungarian teacher. _Eyes that look so much like a certain senior's_, a small part of his brain butted into his thoughts. He blushed at the thought.

"Nothing's wrong," he claimed, "I just forgot my instrument today. No big deal."

She pursed her lips and her eyes roamed over Lovino's form, searching for signs and clues of what was troubling the obviously upset Italian. "I'm all ears, you know," Ms. Hedevary reminded. "I have a free period and am armed with passes."

No matter how tempting it was to Lovino to miss his next class to instead stay here, in his comfort zone, he knew he would soon leave that comfort zone to do what his favorite teacher wished him to do. He wasn't one to talk about his feelings, he'd never had to nor wanted to, and would have no idea where to start.

"No," Lovino decided, deflating, "I have a quiz next period. Can't miss it," he lied easily.

Ms. Hedevary pursed her lips and hummed understandably. "Okay." As Lovino turned to walk away, though, she interjected, "Wait, Lovino! There's something I've been meaning to ask for a week or so, but it keeps slipping my mind."

The Italian turned back to his band teacher, resisting the urge to run away as fast as possible.

"There's regional's coming up," she explained, "the music festival, and I need to know if you're going to try out or not." She smiled. "I think you should, of course, but that's just me. You need to decide. And ask your parents."

A chill ran through Lovino at the mention of those who were supposed to have raised him. "Grandfather, not parents." He looked away again. "I'll think about it."

"I need to know by Friday, so hurry. Oh, and Lovino," she stopped him from leaving once again, a small smile on her face, "whoever you're missing right now, I'm sure they're missing you, too."

At that moment the bell rang, and Lovino exited the room with the rest of the students milling through yet another repetitive school day. But, unlike those other kids, he had the haunting words of his last period's teacher echoing through his mind tauntingly.

Since when had he been so easy to read?

o.O.0.O.o

_Pas__ó un buen día junto a mí. Parecía que quería quedarse aquí. No había manera de echarle. (__He spent a good day with me. It looks like he wants to stay. There was no way of getting rid of him.)—"Peter Pan" by El Canto del Loco_

_For some reason I have nothing to say this time around… weird. Hm… nope, nothing. _

_OH yes, I do have something to say. I really don't know how long this story will end up being, or how long it will take me to finish it, but I really hope to get it done with before summer. If I don't then there will be a month long absence since I'm going away to a language immersion program (yay~) and therefore am not allowed to speak or write in English at all… joy…. But, just a heads up in case this does end up becoming that long. _

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	9. Expressivo

_Hello, and sorry for an absence that has been sad. But here I am, with a slightly shorter chapter than usual, but one that's worth it…? I don't know, I got a pretty bad response to last chapter so sorry it sucked? Um, enjoy?_

_Disclaimer__: Io non ho Hetalia__. _

o.O.0.O.o

_**Hoy quiero aprender eso que nunca permito en la vida y quiero liberar de dentro esa ternura**_

o.O.0.O.o

"You bastard!"

The call echoed across the parking lot, startling many students arriving for school. Antonio looked up from emerging from his car in search of the owner of the familiar voice excitedly, a cold lead dropping in his stomach as soon as he caught sight of exactly what was coming towards him. Lovino stomped across the parking lot, his face a vibrant red, and his eyes molten pools of golden green directed straight for their target.

As Lovino stalked ever closer, Antonio tried to think of what would have made him so angry. Nothing specific came to mind; the only remotely realistic event that could have caused Lovino's reaction to seeing him this morning was that Antonio was absent the day before. But why would that make Lovino angry? Antonio thought Lovino hated him, so wouldn't he have been happy the Spaniard had missed school the day previous?

It didn't make much sense to Antonio, but before he could ponder it any longer, Lovino reached the car, and, incidentally, Antonio himself.

"Bastard!" Lovino repeated, his words no less harsh than the first time around. "Where were you yesterday?"

Antonio stared up at Lovino, his mouth opened slightly as if in an attempt to speak. No words came forth, though, no matter how many questions sprouted in the now thoroughly confused Spaniard's head. He was right? Lovino had missed him? Electric shocks spread from his extremities at the thought, and a smile tugged at his lips despite the situation, much to the chagrin of the still fuming Lovino.

"What's so fucking funny, _stronzo_?" Lovino demanded. "Where were you? You had my damn instrument, and I fucking needed it!"

Antonio's previously soaring heart fell. So he had only needed something from him. "A-ah, well," Antonio groped for something to say. Obviously he couldn't tell Lovino he had been nursing a hangover along with the other two members of the Bad Touch Trio. "I was sick?" he tried.

Lovino's eyes narrowed into even more of a glare. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling?"

The Italian sighed exasperatedly. "Whatever. I don't have time for your fucking lies. Give me my damn instrument." He held out his hand expectantly.

"Uh," Antonio asked smartly, "where is it?"

Lovino rolled his eyes humorlessly and let his arm fall to his side. "You seriously didn't even notice it? At all?" Lovino uttered in disbelief.

"No," the Spaniard admitted.

"_Dio mio_, bastard," Lovino sighed again, "you are _beyond_ unobservant." He shifted his weight onto one hip. "It's on the floor on the passenger side."

Sure enough, when Antonio leaned over the passenger seat, there it was, shiny leather reflecting the early morning sun rising, full of hope, over the world. It seemed to mock Antonio as he grabbed the case with heavy limbs. Disappointment weighed them down as he handed the only thing keeping Lovino with him at that moment, the feeling so antipodean to the symbol it was almost funny.

As expected, not even a word of thanks was given to Antonio as Lovino traipsed off in the direction of the school. The Spaniard stared after him dismally for a few moments before finally dragging himself out of the car. He closed the door and locked it with a satisfactory beep before following the path of the Italian, the likes of who was just now entering the building.

Why was he so deflated all of a sudden? Anyone who knew the Spaniard would never expect him to be anything but cheerful nearly all the time, let alone openly feel depressed about something so trivial. But what was it that was so trivial and causing this uncharacteristic mood? Surely it couldn't have been Lovino's quick dismissal—whether he knew what he was doing or not—of the possibility of missing Antonio? Antonio wouldn't need him to do that. Sure, he was interested in Lovino, he maybe even liked the Italian a bit—though apparently Francis was convinced it was a bit more serious than that—but he wasn't at the point where he craved the freshman's affections. Was he?

No, he decided as he walked up the steps and into the school, he hadn't missed Lovino yesterday, so why should he expect it from the less affectionate Italian? Or had he? Had he in fact longed to be with Lovino the previous day while he was instead with his two closest friends?

But what did it matter either way? It was normal to miss a friend, and Antonio was certainly no exception to that general idea. Though calling Lovino a friend was a bit of a stretch. It was something he could aspire to, most definitely, but not something he could claim to have achieved at that precise moment in time. Maybe one day he would have the privilege, but as of now he was certain Lovino didn't consider them to be able to be labeled as such a thing.

Without even noticing he had navigated the busy hallways, Antonio found himself in his homeroom. He entered the classroom just in time for the bell to ring and drifted across it to sit beside Francis. A quick scan of the room confirmed what he had been previously thinking—Gilbert wasn't in school that day either.

The three of them had lucked out when they'd entered high school. The homerooms were decided based on nothing else but the alphabetical list of students in each grade, and every twenty students or so they would designate a homeroom. By some love sent from above—or below depending on whether you were the teacher or the student—the three of them were placed in the same class—Beilschmidt, Bonnefoy, Carriedo—and had been ever since that gratifying first day of school of their freshman year.

They had taken advantage of that more than once, much to the amusement of their fellow classmates and to the annoyance and oftentimes anger of the unlucky teacher.

Now was not one of those times, however.

Antonio's face was still wrought with confusion and disappointment, the combination of emotions clearly visible for all to see. The Spaniard didn't seem to realize exactly what he was displaying to the world, or, at least, not until Francis' own face contorted in worry.

"What is troubling you,_ cher_?" the Frenchman questioned as Antonio collapsed into the seat beside him. His head drooped to the desk, resting there with his cheek pressed into the hard plastic and his eyes staring listlessly past Francis.

"I don't know. But I think I…I think I'm starting to _like_ Lovino," he explained hesitantly.

Francis' eyes narrowed incredulously. "You did not already?"

Antonio raised his head to stare at Francis straight on. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.

The blonde nudged a rampant piece of hair behind his shoulders and rolled his eyes comically. "You have been doting over him for the past two weeks, have you not?" he questioned. "I just assumed you had a crush on the boy."

Antonio blinked, his brows narrowing. He lowered his head to stare and the tannish desktop as the announcements came over the loud speaker. Why did these things seem obvious to everyone but him?

"But I would not worry, _cher_," Francis reassured him, "I am almost certain the little Italian likes you, too."

The Spaniard directed his gaze back up to the now smiling Frenchman. He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"I would not be so sure," Francis commented, turning back to the front when the teacher sent the two a glare that clearly said "shut up or you'll get another detention".

Antonio stared at the Frenchman for a second longer before turning around himself. Lovino couldn't possibly like him, could he? No, he had shown time and time again that he wasn't interested in Antonio. Right?

The question didn't leave Antonio's head for the rest of the day.

o.O.0.O.o

"Now try this passage again, this time with more emphasis on the _staccati_," Ms. Hedevary directed, pointing to a four-measure passage of eight and sixteen notes.

Lovino nodded from his seat next to hers in the small practice room. He placed the instrument back up to his mouth to try again, and as soon as he blew air through the mouthpiece he was off. He finished it quickly—it was allegro, after all—and looked up to his Hungarian teacher expectantly.

She nodded. "Exactly, that was much better," she praised, "why don't you try playing the whole thing now?"

Again he obeyed her, running through the composition quickly and efficiently. It was a fairly thoughtless piece, he decided. The technicality of it was all too easy, and there wasn't really much for him to think about when it came to difficulty. There weren't many accidentals, or odd music configurations that would have otherwise messed him up. So, after a minute or so he was finished, and again looked to Ms. Hedevary for her opinion.

The Hungarian looked at Lovino unsurely. "You have one problem, dear," she explained, "you see, you can play most of the technical parts easily, and you're getting all the notes right, but there's no feeling in the music. You have to emphasize the dynamics. Make arcs in the phrases."

"I was playing the fucking dynamics as written, isn't that good enough?" Lovino groused. He had followed the crescendos and decrescendos to the extent they were shown, and had played piano or forte when stated. What was so wrong with that?

Ms. Hedevary pursed her lips. "No, Lovino, you have to really exaggerate them. Right now it sounds like you're bored with the music. You have to _become_ it." She stared at her student's blank face and sighed. "You'll figure it out. But anyways, what do you think about regional's?"

Truthfully, Lovino had yet to approach his grandfather about the topic. Not only was he slightly afraid of him, but he also wasn't sure he would want to pay the registration fee, no matter that it was very cheap. Lovino certainly wanted to participate in it; it was a contest, a place to show off his single skill.

"Yeah," he said, "I'll do it."

He would deal with the repercussions later.

"Great!" the band teacher exclaimed. "I have the audition piece right here, let's start right away, shall we?" She stood up hurriedly and walked to the side of the little room where a bag rested against the white wall. She dug into it and pulled another little music book out.

"You were going to make me do it if I didn't say yes, weren't you?" Lovino deadpanned.

Ms. Hedevary smiled saccharinely. "Of course not. What would make you think that, dear?" she asked, waving her hand in dismissal, though, Lovino noted, she still had that too-wide smile on her face.

She sat down in her seat again and rifled through the book in search of the composition. A moment later she found it, and placed the music down on the stand, flattening the spine with a single swipe of her hand. "There were two pieces to choose from, but this one seems more appropriate."

Lovino looked over the two-page music composition, his hazel-green eyes roaming the page, searching for things that would contest to how hard it was going to be to master.

"Try-outs are in a month, so we don't have very long," Ms. Hedevary continued, "but I don't think it's going to be too hard for you." Her eyes hardened. "But you have to promise you'll try to make it more expressive, okay?"

He nodded absentmindedly, eyes still roaming the music. She was right; it didn't appear to be too difficult, and it wouldn't take too long to master technically. It was this expressiveness he was worried about. What did she mean? He gave plenty of "feeling" or whatever to his music; he didn't need anymore.

He'd figure some way of appeasing her eventually.

"Now, let's try sight reading it, shall we . . ."

o.O.0.O.o

"_Hoy quiero aprender eso que nunca permito en la vida y quiero liberar de dentro esa ternura" (Today I want to learn that which I never allow in life and I want to free from within that tenderness)—"Quiero Aprender de Ti" by El Canto Del Loco _

_Well, there you go. A bit shorter than usual, but I have been so damn busy lately, it's not even funny. I mean, I'm busy usually, but it's usually in a schedule. Since school's ending now, though, and everything I've been doing this year (mostly stuff at the Hartt School of Music) is coming to an end until fall, my schedule has been fucked up. I've been working a lot, too. That is my excuse. Take it as you will._

_Oh, and I have an audition for next year's community division thing at Hartt. Wish me luck…?_

_One more thing: I think I'm going to try and get one of my friends to post chapters that I will (hopefully) be able to write during finals, as I'll have only partial school days (and don't study….). I don't know, though. This won't be finished by summer, that much is for sure, and I can't post them while I'm away and I don't want to give you a month-long absence so… I'll wait and see._

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	10. Andante

_Nothing much to say up here. Longer AN at the end. That is all. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own it, never will, will never even hope of hoping to own it._

o.O.0.O.o

_**All in all you're no good, you don't cry like you should. I'll be gone when you fall, your sad life says it all.**_

o.O.0.O.o

There were very few things in this world Lovino could claim to enjoy. One of them was music. Another was good food. One of them was _not_ Antonio Carriedo.

That's what Lovino told himself as he sat in the small practice room at the college, the composition he was to perform in only a few weeks time for his looming audition displayed out in front of him. Lovino was frustrated, but only with the music he told himself. He most certainly didn't care that Antonio hadn't been there to walk him to math that day. It wasn't Antonio causing his nerves to fray and his scowl to deepen. It wasn't Antonio making his usually horrid temper even worse. It wasn't Antonio making his chest ache painfully.

No, it was only the music and its annoyingly slowness causing all this. It was marked as the agonizing tempo of 62 bpm to a quarter note, a truly largo piece. And an infuriating one. Lovino had always loved the thoughtlessness a technical piece allowed. He was able to more easily lose himself in them, for as soon as he figured out the pattern in the eighth or sixteenth notes, or, at times, even thirty-second notes he was free to let his mind go numb, letting his fingers to do the hard work.

Slow pieces, though, Lovino hated with an unbelievable passion. They were agonizing and lethargic, and reminded Lovino of a horrible unmoving world where everything was inert. He was forced to think, because keeping tempo and adding to the already existing dynamics were everything—as Ms. Hedevary never ceased to remind him—and they involved conscious thought.

Damn this music.

Damn Ms. Hedevary.

Damn Antonio.

No, scratch that. Don't damn Antonio. Or rather, do damn him, but not because he was making Lovino set his jaw in annoyance as he tried again to "become the music" as his ever unhelpful—but really, in reality, priceless—teacher had so graciously dictated to him that afternoon. The afternoon, Lovino was reminded, after he had been forced—or maybe left was a better word—to walk to math alone, the absence of Antonio looming over him almost as dauntingly as his upcoming audition.

Not that it bugged him, because it didn't. Lovino wasn't upset when Antonio, instead of trailing after the Italian's retreating form, had hung back to accompany Francis. He didn't care if the bastardly Spaniard had decided to choose the sleazy Frenchman over himself. If anything, he was better off, for this way not only would he not have the annoying presence of Antonio nagging him nonstop during their walk, but he was finally getting that which he desired: for Antonio to leave him alone. This way Lovino was safe; he was protected from the potential—and inevitable—heartache that was sure to follow any kind of relationship with the senior.

Or so he told himself as he tried again to create arcs in the phrases, to breath life into the dynamics. It was a sad piece, as most lento pieces are by nature, and for that, at least, Lovino was grateful. If it were unbearably cheerful along with everything else, he wouldn't know what to do. It reminded Lovino oddly of a person who was horribly optimistic and flighty, but continued to get dragged down by the reality of the situation. The high notes reached for the sky and resembled hope, but then suddenly the tone was dragged down, only to eventually reach one of the lowest notes on the oboe.

_No wonder I don't like to hope_, Lovino noted wryly. In a sick way he almost relished in the pain of this hypothetical person. It only proved his point; there was no reason to hope, or strive, or wish, because no matter what you did nothing would improve or change. Then, after you've been beaten down again, it would only feel worse because you wished them to be better. If you resign yourself to failing, then when you actually do it doesn't hurt.

Or so Lovino convinced himself as Antonio once again drifted into his mind. He didn't care, because he had told himself it wouldn't work anyways. He had known it would fail, so he wasn't hurt.

Lovino's frown deepened. He dropped his hand to the side, staring at the music dejectedly. With his mind continually running away from him, it was obvious he wasn't getting anything else done that day. Sighing, Lovino packed up his oboe and grabbed his music. Glancing at his watch as he nudged the heavy wooden door open, Lovino groaned at the reading. The next bus wouldn't be there for another forty minutes.

Lovino trudged down the grey-blue locker-lined hallway aimlessly, eyes directed downwards at the tiled floor. He wandered to the door to the stairwell, plodding down the single flight of stairs to the glass door. The Italian emerged outside lethargically, his limbs weighed down by his instrument and music, the former awkwardly bumping against his thigh ever so often as he swung his arms in time with his steps. He walked like this across the dismal courtyard, the trees within it drooping and the bushes turning brown with the coming chill of fall. Finally he reached the abandoned bus stop. Apparently no one else was stupid enough to sit and wait for forty minutes. Plopping down on the discolored bench, he stared listlessly across the street to the parking lot.

Hazel eyes traveled uninterestedly across the half-empty lot consisting of not much more or less than cracked tar and faded yellow lines. They took in the few cars still there at such a weird evening hour, one in which most people were sitting and eating dinner with family happily. They paused, though, upon catching sight of a familiar car, a red one. Antonio's car. And, sure enough, there was Antonio sitting in the front seat, his eyes directed downwards at what Lovino assumed to be a phone.

What was he doing there? Hope fluttered up from its suppressed niche deep in Lovino's chest. Was he there for Lovino? No, certainly not. Antonio was avoiding him, not coming to see him randomly when he should have been with family like every other normal person at this hour. So why was he here instead?

A moment later Lovino got his answer.

Something vibrated against the Italian's thigh, and he jumped before realizing it was only his phone. He reached for it and pulled it free of his pants pocket. Lovino's brows scrunched. He didn't recognize the number. Opening it anyways, he read the short message.

_**Sent at 6:17 pm**_

_Hey Lovi~ :) Guess who!_

Antonio. Antonio was sitting in the parking lot in front of Lovino, texting him.

He hurried to type a reply, his fingers flying across the touch screen.

_**Sent at 6:17**_

_Bastard. How the fuck did you get this number?_

Satisfied with the message, he pressed the send button. Lovino's eyes found the red car again, his hazel eyes watching the Spaniard through his lashes. A moment later Antonio's face lit up in a brilliant smile. Lovino's cheeks pinked. Antonio was that happy to get a reply from him?

Lovino's phone buzzed again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

_**Sent at 6:18**_

_Feli~_

He should have figured. That little brat. Seconds later another one came.

_**Sent at 6:18**_

_Where r u?_

Lovino stole another glance across from him. Antonio still didn't look up. He typed a reply.

_**Sent at 6:19**_

_The fuck should I tell u? Stalker bastard._

Despite himself, Lovino's lip twitched into a half smile at the ridiculous response he received. He could almost hear the whine in his mind.

_**Sent at 6:20**_

_But Lovi~~~ I'm trying 2 find u!_

Lovino's eyes rolled of their own accord. Again, he looked up to see Antonio with his face still buried in his phone. Like hell the bastard was trying to find him. Maybe he should give up the ruse and walk over to the oblivious Spaniard. No, that would be too easy. Lovino smirked.

_**Sent at 6:22**_

_How can u be trying 2 find me when ur sitting in ur car?_

The Italian watched through his lashes as Antonio blinked confusedly, his eyebrows knitting together. The Spaniard finally glanced up and scanned his surroundings. Within seconds, the senior's emerald eyes fell of Lovino's slouched form. His entire form brightened, and he scrambled to exit his car, grin stretching nearly ear to ear.

Slamming his car door shut, Antonio ran across the parking lot and into the street, not even pausing to look for incoming cars as he bolted across the road. Lovino stood, ensuring his usual scowl was in place before facing the Spaniard.

When Antonio reached Lovino, he grinned his usual holy-shit-this-grin-is-so-bright-it-could-rival-the-stars grin and latched himself onto Lovino in an awkward one-sided hug. The Italian's cheeks reddened embarrassingly, his heart thumping so powerfully he was sure Antonio could feel it through his chest.

After a few seconds, the Spaniard finally pulled back, his smile not dimming. "Found you," he said proudly.

Lovino gave him a withering look. "I was sitting here the entire time you were texting me and you had no idea," he protested. "Oblivious idiot," he added under his breath.

"And you were calling _me_ a stalker."

Lovino looked away, his cheeks dusting pink right when they had finally gone back to normal. "Shut up," the Italian muttered. Huffing, he continued, "You're the one following me around."

"I just want to spend more time with you~," Antonio whined, "I only get to see you at lunch." He pouted rather childishly. Lovino wondered if Antonio had changed at all since he was in kindergarten.

"Whatever," he murmured, "is there a reason you're here right now?" Lovino stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

Antonio brightened suddenly. "Yeah," he confirmed. He cleared his throat. "I am bringing you out to dinner!" the Spaniard exclaimed.

Lovino blinked in confusion for a moment, before his mind finally absorbed what Antonio had just said. When it finally hit him, hazel eyes widened and already rosy cheeks darkened. Antonio wanted to take him out for dinner? Like on a date? No, he must have been mistaken. Anything but that. Antonio was avoiding him. He certainly wouldn't want to spend extra time with the person he was trying to get away from, right? Part of him tried added that Antonio wouldn't be there in the first place if he wanted to get away from him, but Lovino ignored that part. He swallowed thickly.

"O-on a school night?" Lovino finally managed to reply dumbly, mentally smacking himself even as the words tumbled from his mouth.

Antonio's head cocked to the side comically. "Does it make a difference?"

"O-of course, idiot!" Lovino answered quickly, trying without much luck to retrieve his buried dignity. "I have h-homework . . . and . . . shit . . ." he trailed off uncertainly, eyes falling to the ground as his cheeks flamed.

"You could always do it when you get back, right?"

"Y-yeah."

Lovino didn't dare look back up at the Spaniard's face. Surely he was thinking the freshman was crazy, or at least a bit weird at the moment. There was no way Antonio would want to take him now, not that he would in the first place.

"So?" Antonio prompted.

"So what?" Lovino groused.

"So will you go to dinner with me?" the Spaniard questioned. "I can't promise anything fancy, but…" He stared expectantly at Lovino.

"The food had better be fucking good," Lovino muttered, voice barely audible over the wind. "I swear if I get some dry as hell whatever I'll kill you." Cheeks aflame, he observed out of the corner of his eye as Antonio's face brightened.

"I wouldn't dream of disappointing you." Emerald eyes sparkled intensely. "Well we'd better head out now, then. It's getting late." Antonio turned toward to the road, this time having enough common sense to look both ways before stepping onto the asphalt. Glancing back at Lovino's unmoved form, he frowned. "That was a 'yes', right?" the Spaniard asked unsurely.

The Italian scowled, stepping forward—after grabbing his instrument and music—to join Antonio as he trekked across the road. "Of course it was," he said.

The Spaniard smiled warmly at Lovino. "I'm glad."

The two simple words were uttered with such surety, such conviction that Lovino had no choice but to remain silent as his cheeks warmed for the millionth time that night. Though maybe they had never cooled in the first place.

As the two climbed into the car—Lovino crawling across the driver's side to reach the locked-in passenger chair—Lovino's mind wandered into dangerous territory, the one full of doubts and insecurities a decade old. Devilish voices whispered evil things into his ears, words trying to convince him to escape somehow, to leave while he still had a scrap of happiness in tact. Because surely Antonio would tire of him, would abandon him, would throw him away like last week's pasta, leaving Lovino with nothing but an aching heart and an unfillable void. He was terrified; he was empty before Antonio, and if he latched onto the boy like the leech he was, sucking at his happiness to fuel his own malnourished soul, and was pulled off in disgust, he would be an irreparable husk of his former self. Lovino knew this, and yet he still sat in the faded leather seat, his hands tucked under him and daunting heat drifting from the Spaniard across the small gap between the two students.

And Lovino had no idea why.

No, that was a lie. He did understand it; he knew the true reason he had yet to bolt for home with his tail between his legs. Without even knowing it, he had already grown too close to Antonio to leave. Even now, were he to abandon the Spaniard, he would feel the ache in his chest and the tear in his heart. And even though it would only get worse with time, he was reluctant to leave. He was being selfish and greedy in doing this, in mooching off Antonio's cheerfulness for his own happiness.

But the human race is a selfish one, isn't it?

The phone in his pocket buzzed again, and for a second he almost thought it would be Antonio again. A quick glance across the dashboard confirmed that, no, even Antonio wasn't stupid enough to risk getting in an accident to text someone sitting directly next to him.

Pulling his phone out curiously, Lovino glanced to the screen. Feliciano's name came up bright and clear in the banner spanning the touch screen. With a jolt Lovino realized he had to call the younger twin and tell him of his absence from dinner. Sure enough, the text read:

_**Sent at 6:34**_

_Will u be home soon?_

Lovino was grateful, at least, for the fact that it was a text and not a phone call. He really didn't want Feliciano to hear the telltale signs of Lovino's see-through lies.

Sighing dejectedly, Lovino typed a quick response.

_**Sent at 6:35**_

_No. Going out for dinner. Will u be alone?_

Antonio glanced across at Lovino. "Who's that?" he asked as the car rounded a corner.

"Feli," Lovino grunted. "He's just wondering when I'll be home."

"Ah," Antonio responded. Then, "He's not going to eat alone, is he? Maybe I should invite him, too."

Lovino felt a pang in his chest at the words. His scowl deepened. Naturally. Even when he got the spotlight he was sure to be outshined by Feliciano. He should have run while he still could have.

"Sure, why the hell not?" Lovino spoke, sarcasm and hurt lacing his words. _It's not like it's a date anyway_, the freshman reminded himself. Antonio had never clearly said it was so why should he assume? It was just naïve and hopeful of him to do so.

"But it would be weird having him along on our date, don't you think?" Antonio's voice broke through Lovino's sinking thoughts.

_D-date?_ _It was actually a date?_ Lovino's mind whirled with shock and happiness. "Y-yeah," he managed.

Thankfully, a moment later his phone buzzed, saving him from having to answer further.

_**Sent at 6:38**_

_k. Have fun~ No, Luddy's over._

Lovino scowled at the thought of the potato bastard with his brother, but even that couldn't ruin his current excitement, no matter how dangerous it was. Not bothering to reply to the message, Lovino sat back in the pale leather seat and faced directly forward.

And even as the darkness pecked at the sides of his mind, barraging it was pessimistic thoughts and doubts, he couldn't help but hope it would go well.

o.O.0.O.o

_No translation yet again. Lyrics from Breaking Benjamin's "What Lies Beneath". I kind of imagined them as what Lovino thinks Antonio is thinking when he'll "inevitably" abandon him, but whatever._

_Ugh, done. Now sleep. I'm trying to get to bed earlier with finals in just a few weeks and a weekend full of waking up early, working hard, and going to bed late ahead of me. _

_Thanks for all the great reassurances about my audition! It went well (I hope) so I guess all your good luck did good for me~! _

_It is official. When I go away for the summer, my friend OwlinAMinor will post the chapters (3-4 of them depending) on Wednesdays! Now if only I could get ahead in writing them…_

_And here's the piece Lovino is playing (just take out the spaces and skip to about 1:37. The guy talks _forever._): _ www. youtube watch?v= SP1csHh_CMs&feature =results_ main&playnext =1&list= PLF2C575182647A0AB

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	11. Presto

_As I am writing this first part I am running on nineteenish hours without sleep. Dear God help me. And I so brilliantly forgot my glasses at school. Reading glasses. As in need-them-for-reading glasses. Damn it._

_Two days later and I forget the again. Wonderful. _

_Well, enjoy~!_

_Disclaimer: Nope._

o.O.0.O.o

_**E quando poi sarà l'inverno lo non me ne accorgerò, sembrerà già primavera quando mi risveglierò.**_

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino clutched his drink as if it alone held him tethered to this world. He stared at it just as intently, studying the drops of condensation as they drifted languidly down the surface of the translucent glass. The small bubbles from the carbonated drink caught his eye as they finagled their way to the surface of the liquid before dispersing into the tense atmosphere, becoming invisible just as the awkwardness no doubt drifting alongside it was.

If Lovino did this, if he studied the glass and only focused on that, then the world around him would be blocked out. So he continued. He blocked out the too-quiet-to-hear-properly music. He blocked out the waiters and waitresses flitting about with fake friendly smiles. He blocked out the smell of food he could have just as easily made at home, the way he could feel the wooden supports through the cheap maroon leather of the booth, the cheerful laughter and excited story-telling going on all around him. But, above all else, Lovino blocked out the presence of the too-enthusiastic Spaniard across from him.

Antonio was sitting directly across from the nerve-racked Italian, staring at him with rapt fascination akin to that of the Hebrews as the waters of the Red Sea parted to reveal a glorified path for them to travel. He had been ever since the two had exited the car, and, although only Lovino seemed to be able to sense it—the dense bastard—it was making things more than a little awkward.

Hell, simply the fact that the two were on a date to begin with was awkwardness inducing, and Antonio's staring at the self-conscious Italian like the creep he was wasn't helping the situation any. It was doing the exact opposite, really, and Lovino was beginning to get more than a little sick of it. Why couldn't Antonio feel the weirdness of this all? Was he completely unable to sense the mood?

Just as the last of Lovino's nerves were being stretched to their limit, Antonio's voice broke through the tense atmosphere with the effortlessness of a butcher knife through a stick of butter.

"I'm really glad you decided to come tonight, Lovi," the Spaniard spoke, his voice smooth like honey. His eyes didn't break from Lovino's resolutely off-centered face, the emerald boring into the Italian's very soul with its rawness.

Lovino's grip on the glass tightened, his face dusting a delicate pink. "That makes one of us," he grumbled.

Antonio just smiled. Because when Lovino said one thing, his face told a whole other story. Antonio may have been inefficient at reading the atmosphere, but he could at least read Lovino's telltale quirks. An almost odd combination, seeing as the former of the two abilities would be the easier to master. And yet, for all the other option's simplicity, Antonio had instead chosen to master the art of Lovino-reading, a challenge not many wanted to undertake. So why did he want to? He truly had no idea.

It didn't really matter, though, in the grander scheme of things. Because he was happy he had. After all the effort and misinterpretations the pursuing of this difficult skill tended to provide, Antonio got to experience moments like this one. Moments where it was now just so_ obvious_ to him Lovino was at least enjoying being in his presence, if nothing else. Maybe the Italian disliked the crowd, and the atmosphere, and the stuffiness of the popular restaurant, but he was with Antonio, so it didn't matter.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

It was like a puzzle, only he wouldn't leave it once it was solved and finished, left to gather dust above the fireplace, or hanging on the wall in some obscure room of the house. No, this puzzle he would keep next to him, cherishing it, polishing it with all the time passed. Or, maybe it wasn't quite a puzzle, because unlike the simple jigsaws available at the bookstore, Lovino's mystery would never be solved completely. There would always be something new for him, always a new door to crack open, or a new lock to pick.

So maybe Lovino was like an onion; with each layer came a new round of eye-stinging fumes, but along with it was the deliciousness of the newfound juiciness within.

Antonio hoped he never reached the core.

The bouncy waitress traipsed to their table, her powerful strides driving her across the aisle to reach the two highschoolers. She was a young thing with a bob of bouncy brunette curls and high cheekbones, probably a student at the local community college working to pay her tuition.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked of the two young boys, her cheeks flushed, though whether from the work or the presence of the two not exactly unattractive highschoolers was uncertain.

Antonio finally broke his eyes from Lovino's form to meet that of the waitress. "Ah, _Sí_," he agreed, folding up his barely perused menu. He gave his order to the woman—whose cheeks were now a tad darker, Lovino noted—and before he knew it, Antonio was staring at him again.

Blinking to focus himself again, Lovino directed his gaze upwards towards the waitress and offered her a winning smile. If she liked Spanish, let's see how she felt about Italian. "I'd like the _Rigatoni D'Abruzzo, per favore_," he chimed melodically.

Antonio looked to Lovino in surprise, but the Italian pretended not to notice as the waitress—now a flushing mess—wrote down their orders and hurried away with a breathy, "it'll be right out".

"So," Antonio began as soon as she was out of earshot, dipping the straw in and out of his drink absentmindedly, "you flirt with women, but avoid men?"

Lovino set his jaw. "I don't _avoid_ men," he groused.

Antonio rolled his eyes. "Fine," he acquiesced, "you _dislike_ men." He gave a little eyebrow wiggle. "Especially attractive ones."

Lovino felt his face heat up in that unpleasant way, no doubt signaling the presence of an embarrassing blush. "I don't dislike y—" he cut off suddenly. Lovino cleared his throat. "I-I mean, I've always been better at talking to women."

Antonio chuckled at Lovino's poor attempt at stopping himself from voicing his thoughts. "Is it because you're not attracted to them?" he then questioned.

Lovino didn't respond again, choosing instead to use the straw to stir his drink.

"_Are_ you attracted to them?"

Again Antonio was met only with silence. Then, just when he had begun to think Lovino maybe hadn't heard him: ". . . No."

Silence again. Lovino continued to stir his drink, finally taking a sip after a moment of sloshing ice cubes around. When he had finished drinking he finally released the cup, sliding his hands down beneath the table and shoving them beneath his thighs.

"Why did you invite me on this . . ." Lovino hesitated to finish the embarrassing question, "_date_?" His cheeks flushed. "I mean, why _me_?"

Antonio blinked. "I like you, Lovi. Why else would I want to bring you out?" he asked, genuinely confused.

Lovina looked up then, hazel eyes meeting emerald ones.

But before the Italian could respond, the waitress came back a moment later bearing the boys' meals. The two each said a muted thank you, Lovino barely managing a small flirtatious smile before his attention was turned back to his plate of pasta and the man across from it.

Every alarm in his head was yelling at him to turn and run while he still could, to leave before he got too used to the feeling of being complimented, of being liked and accepted. It was a dangerous endeavor to let himself be cushioned by these obviously hollow words. How could Antonio actually mean what he was saying? There was no way he could like Lovino, let alone want to be around him.

And yet for all his negativity, Lovino couldn't help but believe it a little, if only because he enjoyed the new weightlessness in his chest, the way his heart soared and the flutter in his stomach. It was addictive, like a drug.

Lovino had never been any good at resisting temptation.

For the next twenty minutes the two slowly made their way through their meals, pausing every few bites or so to chat about this and that. Nothing as heavy as their earlier conversation came up, though, and for that Lovino was grateful. Slowly his heart was lightening, and his mood along with it. It was great to just _talk_, to talk about nothing. The stress of the upcoming audition, of school, and of the world and its ever-judgmental eyes were pushed to the side for the moment. Even if they would crash back in on him when he was released from the bubble Antonio and Lovino seemed to exist in, he let himself be happy for a moment.

But, as everything must, the evening began to come to an end. What had previously been a suffocating loudness dimmed to muted conversation as the occupied tables became farther and farther apart. It was definitely dark outside now, the last rays of sunlight drifting below the horizon, again reminding people of the slow approach of the shorter days of fall.

"Can I get you anything for dessert?" the same enthusiastic waitress asked the two nearly full teens.

"Uh . . ." Lovino looked to Antonio unsurely. Did the Spaniard want dessert? Would Lovino look like a glutton if he ordered some for himself? Would it be weird if they shared something?

Nerves rattled Lovino's stomach—_Dio_ did he feel like a lovesick schoolgirl—but it turned out he didn't have to worry.

"Yes!" Antonio answered animatedly. "We'll have the flan, _por favor_."

The waitress nodded and drifted towards the kitchen wherein rested their dessert.

When she was gone, Antonio turned to Lovino's slightly flabbergasted face, grinning sheepishly upon catching sigh of it. "Ahaha, _lo siento_." He scratched the back of his head nervously. "Flan is one of my favorite things ever! It's like sweet velvety goodness melting in your mouth!"

"Whatever, bastard," Lovino muttered as an amused half-smile pulled at his lips. "If you say so." He dropped his hands to rest, folded, in front of him on the lacquered wood surface, inching one of them farther towards Antonio than the other.

For a moment, Antonio went on smiling, unaware, but suddenly he seemed to catch sight of the extended hand. Trying not to betray his intentions in any way, he took the Italian's unwilling invitation and reached his own hand forward to rest on Lovino's.

Sparks seemed to fly at his fingertips as they brushed smooth olive skin, the bumps of knuckles surprisingly silky under his touch. Antonio's fingers circled over the back of Lovino's hand once, twice, before resting his palm on top of it. The Italian's hands were surprisingly cold, the tips burning freezing fire into his palm. He didn't mind it, though. That meant he was warming Lovino, and that was all the reason to stay as they were.

That and Lovino looked absolutely gorgeous when he blushed.

Then, to alleviate the Italian's obvious embarrassment—the likes of which he seemed to have a surplus of—Antonio simply carried on talking as if nothing had changed. Really, it hadn't. It was only hand holding, after all.

To Lovino, though, it was on a whole other level. To him, yes, it was still only hand holding, but that was why he was all the more frustrated with himself for reacting as he had. He was being childish, he told himself.

It was so alien, though, such a strange feeling to have the Spaniard's impossibly warm hand resting on top of his own as if sheltering it, as if protecting it from the world and the dangers it held for the delicate Italian.

_Not that I'm a fucking pansy like Feliciano_, Lovino grumbled inwardly. But it wasn't as if Antonio were blocking from the outside like some kind of modern-day, messed-up Rapunzel. No, he was gently nudging the Italian in the right direction, offering a small shield towards those bad vibes that may drift towards him.

"Can we do this again sometime, Lovi?"

Lovino blinked in surprise. So wrapped up in Antonio's hand was he that he had forgotten the Spaniard had a face and a mouth on it with which he could speak.

"Y-yeah," the disgruntled Italian managed, "I guess so."

Antonio beamed hugely. Lovino wondered offhandedly if it was possible for a smile to be so big that it would encompass the entirety of someone's face. If such a thing were a possibility, Antonio might have achieved it right then and there.

The rest of the night passed in a rush. Their dessert came and went, then the check—which Antonio quickly snatched before Lovino could protest otherwise—and before Lovino knew it, the two of them were walking across the half-empty parking lot to Antonio's small red car.

The ride to Lovino's house was short and uneventful, and passed far too quickly for either occupant's liking. Antonio pulled up in front of the large white colonial, shifting the car into park lethargically. Without saying a word he climbed out, clearing the way for Lovino to follow.

He did with difficulty, climbing over the worn leather with a great effort.

"You seriously need to get that damned door fixed," Lovino grumbled as he finally pulled free.

"As soon as I get the money, I will," Antonio reassured him, reaching in to grab Lovino's instrument.

When the Spaniard withdrew from the interior of the car, Lovino smacked him. "Idiot!" he shouted. "Why the fuck did you bring me out to dinner if you're short on cash?"

With a pout that more properly belonged on a five year old, Antonio rubbed his sore arm. "I thought I already answered that question," he whined.

"W-well that's no excuse," the Italian mumbled as he remembered earlier that night when Antonio had admitted to liking him. He snatched his case from Antonio hurriedly, not meeting the older teen's eyes, and rushed around the car and away from Antonio before he could make Lovino any more awkward.

"See you tomorrow, Lovi!" Antonio called down the walkway.

Lovino heard the hum of a motor. A moment later, it was gone. Antonio was gone.

He waited with bated breath for the suffocating depression to return, but when it didn't, Lovino's previous happiness attacked him again. His stomach fluttered with excitement and a hesitant smile inched its way across his face.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Then again, Lovino had always attracted bad news. It was just a matter of time before the ball was dropped.

Lovino pushed that from his mind. For now he was happy, he was content, he was sated, and, above all, he had Antonio.

So why was he getting a bad feeling about all of this?

o.O.0.O.o

"E quando poi sarà l'inverno lo non me ne accorgerò, sembrerà già primavera quando mi risveglierò (and when winter will come, I won't even realize it, it will already seem like spring when I wake up)" from "Ninna Nanna" by Mariangela.

_Dun, dun duuuun! _

_I was planning on adding another scene there, but the date one went on longer than I thought it would. Odd fluffiness? XD Who knew, right?_

_I kind of imagined the date happening in Chili's (a restaurant that I think is across the country, but I don't really know), but I didn't mention it explicitly because 1) more disclaimers, yay and 2) because I like allowing the reader to imagine things as they want. If you wanted a clearer picture, though, then there. Yay. _

_I don't like the ending. But then again, I never do. _

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	12. Come Marcia

_100 reviews! Woot! (More on that below XD)_

_Um, not much to say here. More important AN at the end, please read because it has info about the summer. _

_School ended for me as of 9:35 today (Yay for not having a second exam) and I have officially ended freshman year with a 4.6 GPA! Now wish me luck in my immersion program . . . _

_Enjoy~_

_Disclaimer: __En serio, si has leído hasta aquí, ya sabes que no poseo Hetalia. _

o.O.0.O.o

_**Viajaré en silencio y solo tú me oirás gritar**_

o.O.0.O.o

A mutinous smile tugged at Lovino's lips as he made his way down the pathway to his house. Memories from the night's events slipped in and out of his mind pleasantly, each new one threatening a reappearance of the betraying upwards curl of his lips.

It was an odd thing to be happy after so long wallowing in his misery and misfortune. It was disconcerting, and certainly alien, for Lovino to be feeling such a thing. The image of Antonio smiling cheerfully at him—as if he actually _liked_ Lovino—sent his head spinning in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Maybe _giddy_ was the word for it. But giddiness was usually shallow, wasn't it? And it never lasted long, either. Although, of course, neither would these feelings; no matter what Antonio said, he wouldn't put up with Lovino for very long. He'd tire of him and his abrasiveness eventually.

Everyone always did.

Lovino finally reached the door, twisting the knob and pulling it open. Instead of over-thinking things as he had a tendency to do, he would cherish the happiness. It couldn't possibly last forever so he might as well enjoy its rarity while it still existed. Maybe it was dangerous, but you only live life once, right?

Then again, that's what they always say about drugs: "I'll only try it once; I won't get addicted."

But Lovino digressed.

The Italian freshman closed the door behind him soundly, the quiet slam amplified by the high ceilings of the foyer. He walked through to the living room, plopping his bag down on the couch and heading towards the stairs. He had only just placed his foot down on the first step when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Not even going to say hello to your grandfather before running to your room?"

Lovino turned on his heel so quickly he almost fell back onto the stairs. As he had thought—dreaded—there, lounging against the archway to the kitchen, stood his grandfather, a man known by most as Roma Vargas. He was oddly young looking for a grandfather, with rich brunette curls barely graying around the edges and a face still as smooth and straight as always. He had golden eyes so similar to Feliciano's, but while the grandchild's were warm, molten gold pools of cheerfulness, the grandfather's were the solid gold of the rich, cold and shiny and sharp.

Or, at least, they always were when directed to Lovino.

Within a second Lovino's usual scowl was back in place, all the previous excitement disappearing immediately. Roma Vargas was never one for pleasantries without a purpose.

"Hello," Lovino muttered, eyes glinting nervously, "now goodnight." He swung around, more than ready to march up the stairs and to his room. At least he hadn't been wrong in his earlier assumptions; the happiness hadn't lasted very long after all. He could only wonder how Antonio hadn't been the cause of its quick retreat.

"You're not getting away that easily," Roma spoke. His voice was quiet, but demanding. Lovino had no choice but to turn back around to face the supposedly loving grandfather, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'd like to talk to my grandson." This time his voice was sharp like a knife, one with which he was stabbing Lovino slowly, the ragged blade inching through layers of muscle and tissue with an agonizing lethargy.

"Then fucking talk," Lovino spat.

Roma's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Watch your mouth," he chastised. He took another few steps towards Lovino, his eyes never leaving the teen's forcefully neutral face.

For a moment the grandfather stared evenly at the boy, his expression not betraying the thoughts no doubt flying within the confines of his head. When he finally spoke again, his voice was even and slow. It was the worst kind of anger, that kind that's calculated and controlled. Tempers Lovino could deal with—he had one himself. But this, this was something that chilled him to the bone and sent his stomach plummeting to his feet.

"I received a phone call today," Roma said, "from your band teacher." Golden eyes scanned Lovino's face for signs of a reaction, but his face stayed as even as before. "She mentioned a regional's competition. And that you had yet to hand in your registration form for it."

Lovino's face drained of all color. Registration. It had completely slipped his mind. The paper was still lying, discarded, in the bottom of his backpack from when Ms. Hedevary had given it to him a week ago.

"I need this by next week," she had said. "Both you and your grandfather need to sign it, and there's a fee of $48 for entry into the festival. Is that okay?"

And Lovino, brilliant as always, had answered, "Yeah, sure."

Only now it was coming back to haunt him. He wasn't sure why Roma was so mad, only that he was. There were so many things it could have been—money, Lovino's auditioning in the first place, his not telling Roma; the possibilities were endless. But that didn't matter at the moment, not really. Only one thing truly registered: Lovino was about to receive the brunt of that anger.

"Why didn't you tell me you were auditioning for this, Lovino?" Roma asked tightly.

Those eyes bored into Lovino, allowing no room for excuses or lies. They seemed to see right into his soul, into his very mind. They were devouring all they saw there, all of his insecurities and faults and mistakes, everything.

"I forgot," Lovino responded.

Roma's eyes narrowed. "'Forgot'?" he asked incredulously. "You _forgot_ to mention you were auditioning? You _forgot_ to hand in your registration? You _forgot_ to tell me you were receiving private lessons from your band teacher?"

"Maybe if you paid for lessons from an actual oboe player I wouldn't have had to go behind your back," the choleric Italian spat.

"You never asked for any!" Roma roared.

"Because I knew you wouldn't have let me!" Lovino shouted, matching his grandfather's volume. "There was no point in even bringing it up with you because it would have ended up like this!"

By now Lovino's face was bright red, both with anger and embarrassment. He didn't like talking about his feelings, or what he wanted with anyone, especially those closest to him. It didn't help him, talking it out. Things always ended badly when he tried to share his insecurities, to let people know how much he was hurting inside. One of three things always happened, either 1) he was laughed at like the little wimp he was, 2) he was pitied and looked down upon, or 3) too much attention was given to him.

More often than not it was the third, the worst of the bunch. For a few weeks Lovino would be put under a microscope. He would be observed and scanned and the "are you okays" and "I want to helps" abounded.

Lovino hated it. He liked fading into the background, liked to be part of the crowd. When you sit in the middle, those around you don't berate you. You're in the middle ground, where everyone is mediocre.

People don't tend to notice mediocrity, so they don't notice you. If they don't notice you, they don't notice all of your faults and errors. It was safe. Sticking out either meant you were exceptionally great or exceptionally horrible. He was never the former.

The glinting gold was plunged into the forge, the sleek surface turned molten, but only moments later it was submerged into the cold water, turning it even harder than before. Lovino wondered if he had imagined the phenomenon.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Roma asked again, this time more quietly.

"Why would I tell someone I hate about something I'm proud of?" Lovino replied icily.

Roma's mask of indifference and disappointment changed in a second to the most pained and weak Lovino had ever seen it, the sudden extreme making his heart ache painfully.

Before either of them could amend the situation—or else make it worse—Lovino turned and bolted up the stairs. This time, he wasn't stopped.

He almost wished he had been.

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino decided he was going to paint his ceiling.

He hated the whiteness of it; it was too plain. Which was weird, because Lovino generally embraced things deemed plain and uninteresting.

It was annoying him, though. Ceilings were always white, always. They were there, suspended above the ground, keeping the rain and sun and snow out of the way for those who wished for refuge. And yet, for all its hard work, the only surfaces that got to be painted were the walls around it.

No one ever noticed the ceiling.

It couldn't be easy being there all the time, surrounded by the colorful walls, the ones that got all the attention, all the pictures, the mirrors, the gentle caressing as the ones made blind by darkness stumbled their way to light switches. It had to exist with the knowledge that, for all its pain bearing the weight of keeping the bad out, it would always be second best to the walls.

Which is why Lovino decided he was going to paint his ceiling.

He blinked up at the surface, imagining it a bright tomato red. It would clash perfectly with the light green walls. He had liked the color when he'd chosen it all those years ago. It had been when he first moved into this then unfamiliar house with its suffocating pristine whiteness—because Roma was never home enough to bother with décor—and stiff furniture. Like grass, he'd thought, because grass was soft and warm and reminded him of summer, unlike the house and, if he was to tell the truth, his grandfather.

Lovino winced as he thought of Roma. The look of hurt had been so disconcerting, so uncharacteristic for the severe man that it sent his head reeling. How badly had Lovino hurt him for the walls he had previously imagined impregnable by even the grandest of forces to fall?

Lovino rolled onto his side and pulled his legs up closer to his chest. He had never before thought of himself as a strong force, as someone capable of driving anything down, especially not walls as indomitable as Roma's. No, he was more of a defense person, building his own unassailable walls to keep foreigners out of his castle of a personal bubble.

Castles were always built to be functional, not aesthetic.

_I need a shower_, Lovino thought suddenly. He pushed the duvet off his previously innate body and swung his feet around, curling his toes as they met the plush carpet. Dainty fingers gripped the sheets and hazel eyes bored into the far wall, color of the wall and of Lovino's eyes so similar to each other it was almost uncanny.

But then Lovino broke his gaze away, instead glancing to the blank ceiling, and sighed heavily. He pushed himself up off the bed, trudging across the room and easing his door open. A brunette head peeked out of the room, glancing both ways before darting into the bathroom and closing the door soundly behind him.

The worst thing that could have happened was running into Roma. Luckily, the man had either stayed downstairs or had somehow managed to pass by Lovino's door unnoticed. It didn't matter; either way, Lovino was relieved.

With a breathy sigh, he slid the lock into place and turned the knob for the shower. Within minutes steam coated the room in a mystical haze and Lovino was submerged in the burning rivulets. He let the water run down his body, soaking him through and somehow washing the memories away.

The fight . . . the date . . . the drive home . . . the first day . . . the orientation . . .

_The day his parents left._

o.O.0.O.o

_The overcast sky rumbled forebodingly overhead as a white Mercedes slinked into the driveway before a looming white colonial. The engine died and out climbed a severe man, his mouth set in a chiseled frown, the lines around the mouth making it seem as though the expression were carved into his features. _

_He walked around the car, pulling open one of the doors to the back seat and coaxing a small boy from within. Confused golden eyes were barely seen from behind drooping lids as a chestnut-haired boy no older than six climbed off the leather seats with the help of the much bigger man. _

_On the opposite side of the car—with no help from the man—slumped another small boy, this one almost identical to the first but with hair a shade darker and hazel eyes devoid of confusion. This one followed the other two to the trunk, pulling from it a bag almost as big as he and twice as thick. Despite its weight, he dragged it across the driveway and up the cobble-stoned walkway, silently denying the unoffered help of the older man, the likes of who took another identical bag from the car and trailed the boy to the door. _

_Watching from the car was a woman of admirable beauty for her age. Her long red-brown hair had faded slightly but had yet to grey, and her face—though creased now with worry—was devoid of the beginning signs of wrinkles. _

_Her eyes followed the three as they made their way to the door, though she remained impassive. Even when the golden-eyed boy turned to the woman and waved, rubbing a single eye as the other threatened to close, she stayed as she was. _

_The stubborn brother made it to the entryway first, but instead of knocking or pushing it open, he simply stood to the side, protective scowl and seething eyes boring into the man. _

_The man refused to acknowledge him, instead doing what he had not and knocking business-like on the solid wood._

_Heavy footfalls could be heard inside, and moments later the door was pushed open, revealing a man similar in build to the other, but older and more relaxed in his stance. _

"_Son…"_

"_I need you to take them off my hands for a while," the first man spoke. _

_The older glanced at "them" for second before directing his golden eyes back to the father. "How long?" he asked._

"_I don't know. Angela and I are returning to Italy to assess the business." He nodded to the children. "They are too young to deal with such a huge change in scenery. Despite our…_disagreements_…I'm turning to you."_

_The elder paused for a moment, considering. The hesitation was written clear in his face; he glanced periodically back and forth from the sons to the father, his gaze at once pitiful and disdainful. _

"_Of course," he finally managed, his voice weak, "of course I'll take them."_

_Not a single word more was exchanged between father and sons. The only gesture that betrayed regret or sadness on either side was the polite pat on the head to the smaller and a resolute glare from the older. _

_The man's face remained impassive even as he backed the car onto the road and drove away. _

_When the Mercedes turned the corner and drifted out of sight, the old man finally turned his eyes back to the two children now in his care. He took a step back and gestured widely to the foyer. _

"_Come in, kids," he said. _

_The children followed his order, filing into the house without looking at the unfamiliar man. _

_The darker haired child—he really was always the more perceptive of the two—paused halfway through the doorway. Without breaking his eyes from his brother's back, he asked, "Who are you?"_

"_Your _Nonno_," the man responded. _

"Nonno,_" the boy addressed him as soon as the airier of the two was out of earshot, "they're not coming back, are they?"_

_The sky chose that moment to break open, spilling the rain from the heavens. It pounded heavily on the windows and berated the roof relentlessly. _

_The grandfather's throat caught and he had to swallow before he could answer. "Of course they'll come back," he ensured when he was able. _

_Neither the grandfather nor the grandchild believed it. _

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino only realized he was crying when he tasted salt mixed with the water running down his face. He longed for those days. Once the gaping wound fashioned lovingly by his parents healed to nothing more than a scar, it had been great. Back then Roma had yet to favor, had yet to ruin, had yet to harden, and it was great fun.

He had truly tried to be the picturesque grandfather: he spoiled them, came to all of their school events, gave them sweets, and cooked fabulous homemade meals. But he also had to fill the roll of parent: he was strict with them, punished them, and encouraged them.

But, more than anything, he loved the affection-starved twins with all of his aged heart.

And, though he was indisposed to admit, Lovino loved him back.

Why did he have to go and fuck it up so badly?

o.O.0.O.o

_Viajaré en silencio y solo tú me oirás gritar (__I will travel in silence and only you will hear me scream) — "Cometas por el Cielo" by La Oreja de Van Gogh (LOVE this band~)_

_Oh God, that took forever to write. I wrote the last part three times, each with a completely different outcome. Only in the last one did I even consider including the flashback. Was that okay? I've never really done that before . . ._

_For the summer: I'm going away, and I won't have access to Internet regularly enough to post. If I can get ahead in writing, I will give these to my friend OwlinAMinor to post for me while I'm gone. I may (will probably) only get two done by then, if that, so expect a post every other week. _

_I broke 100 reviews! Thank you guys so much, I love you all~! I was going to do some kind of reward for review 100 but it snuck up on me so . . . Sorry . . . XD_

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	13. Acento

_As you are reading this I am not allowed to speak English~! So thank OwlinAMinor for posting for me while I'm gone~! (BTW, she's a great Hetalia—and other fandom—author with some stories with a completely different tone than mind. So if you're tired of all this angst and seriousness, please go check out her funny and most cheerful stories at some point~). _

_Disclaimer: Nu-uh._

_Enjoy~_

o.O.0.O.o

_**Ana baad ma khadn gamalak w taghyar hali w halak ana kesa magetsh ib bakal tab esbetaha ley**_

o.O.0.O.o

By the time Lovino left for school the next morning, Roma was gone.

He felt relief wash through him as he found the house generously empty. And yet regret still radiated from deep within his psyche as the poison-possessing words he had spat at his grandfather the night previous drifted back into his mind. Lovino really was a horrible grandchild; what kind of person told their grandfather he hated him? It was just wrong to do that, to hate family. It went against nature, against the morals of most world cultures, and against the morals of Lovino himself. Family was everything; even if they hated you, you couldn't hate them back.

Though Lovino found something—specifically some_one_—new to hate.

When he wandered down to the kitchen that morning, Roma hadn't been the only one missing. Feliciano, too, was mysteriously absent. Worry blossomed in Lovino's chest until he found a note pinned to the fridge.

_Fratello—_

_Slept over Luddy's house last night so we could work on a project~_

—_Feliciano_

Though Lovino was glad to discover Feliciano hadn't been randomly kidnapped in the middle of the night, or—as it was very plausible—started sleep cooking again and somehow managed to injure himself, he was still untrusting of the German he was instead being held hostage by.

_I swear, if that bastard did anything to Feliciano I'm going to kill him_, Lovino thought with a scowl as he plopped down at the lunch table. Only Gilbert and Matthew were there already, and he greeted both absentmindedly as he rested his backpack on the ground beside him. Lovino pulled his phone out and was surprised to see a new text from Antonio.

_**Sent at 10:23**_

_I had fun last night~ :)_

Rolling his eyes, Lovino closed the message. He didn't bother replying. What was the point when he'd see Antonio in a few minutes anyway?

He looked back up at the other two occupants of the table. Lovino's eyebrows scrunched together when he noticed how close the two were sitting, their chairs pulled almost flush against each other. They weren't talking, but headphones were split between them, one bud in one of each of their ears, and Matthew seemed to be enjoying the music. His head was resting on his hands, and light violet eyes were closed. A small smile played across his face.

Gilbert, on the other hand, was paying less attention to the music than he was to Matthew. Ruby red eyes refused to break from Matthew's lethargic form, and a small smile—not his usual smirk, a smile—found its way onto his face.

_I never would have imagined_, Lovino thought, shaking his head. What an odd couple; they were such polar opposites.

But then again, weren't Lovino and Antonio the same way? They really shared no common interests, and their personalities were completely different. Where Antonio was cheerful, Lovino was abrasive; where Antonio was friendly, Lovino was rude; where Antonio was amicable, Lovino was querulous. There was no common ground to build a relationship upon.

And there _shouldn't_ be a relationship built upon the nonexistent foundation. No matter how much Antonio seemed to be pushing for one, there was no rational point, no explanation for _why_ the two should be together. It was obvious the two weren't meant to be together, so why push destiny—however underrated it was?

Lovino certainly didn't want to. Make a relationship, that is. He didn't want the hassle, the work, the effort, and, more than anything, the heartbreak it was sure to cause. It didn't matter that he was really starting to like Antonio; Lovino couldn't let the two of them begin some kind of steady rapport.

Maybe he was being cowardly in denying himself and Antonio the right to be in a relationship. No, there was no "maybe" about it, no uncertainty in the equation where the variables were Lovino and Antonio, and the solution whether or not they would end up together.

There was obviously "no possible solution" to their problem, and if there was a more complicated way of finding it, Lovino wasn't willing to try.

A hand on the Italian's shoulder interrupted his thoughts, and he jumped.

Lovino's heart pounded as Antonio came around from behind his seat and pulled a chair directly beside him. The distance between the two Europeans was comparable to the one between their tablemates, which is to say almost nonexistent.

"H-hey, bastard," Lovino stuttered, "not too close!" To accentuate his point, Lovino leaned away from Antonio, gripping the sides of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Antonio pouted. "No such thing as too close to you~," he cooed, leaning towards the Italian. He smiled as Lovino's face turned red. It really was just so cute how much Lovino blushed.

"Fuck you," Lovino muttered.

Suddenly something warm encompassed his hand. When Lovino looked down to where it was still clutching the chair, he saw a much larger, tanned one covering his own. His face darkened.

Lovino cursed himself. Leave it to Antonio to mess him up this badly. Never before had Lovino been affected by someone like this, and he couldn't say he liked the new development. It sent his mind spiraling and his stomach churning in an unnerving way.

The worst part was: he knew why.

Lovino knew exactly what was causing this, and it scared him. It terrified him to think that Antonio had become such a huge part of his life, such a monumental person in affect to him.

"Hey Lovi," Antonio interrupted Lovino's spiraling thoughts, "we're having our first game tonight." The Spaniard was so close his breath tickled the freshman's face as he spoke, the warm air caressing Lovino's flushed cheeks and curling around his nose in delicate swirls. "Will you come?"

Lovino's eyes locked into Antonio's own. They were in such close proximity he was sure that if he leaned in just another inch their lips would meet. But then he realized Antonio had just asked him a question.

"Um," Lovino hesitated, "I . . . when?"

Antonio's eyes brightened hopefully. "It's at four today." He smiled dazzlingly. "So you're coming?"

"Maybe," he acquiesced, not meeting Antonio's eyes.

Antonio's mouth opened to say more, but, to Lovino's relief, Francis chose that moment to seat himself next to Antonio, sighing.

"_Mon ami_," the Frenchman breathed exasperatedly, "I do not understand how you could call that test fair."

The Spaniard shrugged. "I didn't think it was that bad," he defended.

"Not bad?" Francis gave Antonio a withering look. "That was _horrible_ . . ."

Lovino tuned the two arguing seniors out, and instead drifted off to get lunch, his mind spinning thoughts faster than he could process. There were so many new things to think about all at once. On top of still adjusting the to the monster that was high school, Lovino had unwillingly thrown Antonio into the mix, thereby further complicating _everything_ for himself. Not to mention there was now the upcoming audition to worry about—and, incidentally, Roma's opinion of it.

Lovino swore colorfully, earning the glare of a passing teacher. He still needed to hand in that registration form. Ms. Hedevary was going to kill him.

Lovino filed into line behind the other students waiting for their chance to grab the less-than-desirable meal. He snatched an apple off the shelf as he passed it. Taking a bite of the ripe fruit, his thoughts continued.

The money he could come up with himself. Despite their inherent absence, his parents had a habit of sending the twins an allowance of sorts monthly, so he could easily use that for the charge. It was the signature he was going to have to work for. Any confrontation with Roma would obviously end in disaster now—if he could even get a hold of the man to begin with. It wasn't often he stopped in to check on the two of them, so last night had been an unusual occurrence even without factoring in the fight.

Lovino continued down the line, grabbing the plate of . . . whatever it was . . . and continuing to the register, mind still spinning.

He could always forge it, but that would take some effort on his part. He had never been any good at faking signatures. Maybe he could get someone else to do it. The first to come to mind was Antonio, but he didn't seem like the type to go along with it. He might try and get Lovino to reconcile with his grandfather if he explained the story to him.

Feliciano was out of the question. Lovino wouldn't even tell him what had happened, let alone ask him to help him in defying their grandfather. The younger twin was too good-hearted—a trait Lovino would rather not corrupt—to want to agree, and he was more likely to, instead, tell Roma on him.

Gilbert would do it in a heartbeat, but the boy seemed to be a bit occupied by his newest attraction: Matthew.

Then there was Francis. The Frenchman would do it for Lovino; like Gilbert he was keen on breaking the rules. Only, he would certainly ask for collateral. Unlike Feliciano and Antonio, he didn't care enough for Lovino to do it out of friendship or the kindness of his heart, and unlike Gilbert he wasn't one to break the rules just for the hell of breaking them.

Lovino ground his teeth in frustration, wishing for the first time he had more friends to call on.

Well, he'd figure it out. Hopefully.

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino held the last note of his audition piece out for an unnecessary amount of time. He let the last air drift from his lungs and through the instrument before finally ending with a proper decrescendo.

When he finally released the instrument from his mouth, he took a deep breath, refilling his aching lungs with much needed air. His hazel eyes refused to break from the music for a moment, studying that final note with a steady gaze, his eyes boring into the whole note with unrivaled concentration. But, really, they were seeing past it and into the nature of the music itself. As he had been practicing it, Lovino had gotten more and more close to the music, more connected to it. He was finally beginning to "feel" the music as Ms. Hedevary had instructed him.

Or so he thought.

"Better, better," Ms. Hedevary's voice cut through his trance. "You're starting to shape it, so good. But . . ." she gave him a hesitant look.

"It could use more," Lovino finished bitterly.

"Yes." She put a hand on Lovino's shoulder. "Trust me, honey, it's fantastic, really wonderful, but you need more dynamics and movement. _I_ can hear them, but you need to make it so _they_ can." She gestured abstractly to the empty space in front of them.

"The walls?" Lovino questioned sarcastically.

"Don't be a smartass," Ms. Hedevary chastised. "The audience. Imaginary in this case, but still there." She sighed, letting her hand drop. "Always practice like you're performing," she advised, "because, really, an audition doesn't judge how much you've practiced playing, but how much you've practiced auditioning."

Lovino rolled his head back to face the ceiling. "It would help if you made sense once and a while, you old hag," he groaned.

Ms. Hedevary smacked him. "It would make sense if you listened." She glared. "If you refuse to accept my advice, that's your problem." She stood and gathered her things. "We're done for today. And please bring in that form sooner rather than later," she added.

Lovino sighed, looking back to her again. "I know, I know," he reassured her. "

"Well, goodbye, dear."

"Bye."

The door closed behind her.

Lovino looked to the clock at the front of the room, frowning when it read two of four. Well, it looked like he wouldn't make it to the game.

Guilt gnawed at his stomach as he went to practice some more. But after only five minutes, Lovino gave up. He couldn't focus on the music when he knew Antonio was out there playing with all his heart, but without his favorite—though Lovino was hesitant to believe it—Italian there to cheer him on.

With a sigh he grabbed his case from beside him and packed up. Might as well go home at that point. He had an essay due the next day, and as much as he'd like to believe it, it wasn't going to write itself.

Lovino stood up, grabbing his music as he went, and walked to the door. He pushed it open with his hip, and emerged into the deserted hallway. Anyone smart enough would be home at that point, and only those with no lives—Lovino—or with sports commitments—Antonio—would be at school still.

Which is why the sudden clicking of shoes on the tiled floor surprised Lovino. When he rounded the corner, the sight of a frantic-looking Francis speed walking down the hall greeted him. The scene itself confused Lovino; he had never seen Francis look anything but aloof and smooth. Seeing him so riled up was a shock.

Nevertheless, when the Frenchman finally reached Lovino, he addressed him, "Hey, Francis, can I ask you something?"

The Italian had decided Francis was the best candidate for the signature forging despite the ulterior motive he would no doubt throw into the mix.

"Ah, Lovino, I was looking for you," Francis gasped.

"Me?" Lovino narrowed his eyes.

"Yes." The Frenchman nodded. "But ask your question first."

Still confused, Lovino questioned, "Will you forge my grandfather's signature on a form for me? He and I don't quite agree on my participating in the event."

To the Italian's surprise, Francis simply nodded. "Sure, sure. As long as you do me a favor."

Here it came, the other side of the deal. Lovino would have to do some obscenely humiliating thing that would undoubtedly involve nudity of some manner. He shuddered.

"Come to the soccer game, please."

"What?"

Francis looked frustrated. "Antonio is playing horribly. He keeps looking into the crowd and getting distracted." Francis ran a hand through his hair. "The school relies on the soccer team for a lot of their donations from parents, and the team relies on Antonio for their wins."

"What does that have to do with me coming to the game?" Lovino asked, though he had a feeling he already knew.

"I believe he is looking for you."

Lovino shook his head slowly. "No," he said, "no, no, no. Why would he need me there?"

Francis glared at him. "I do not know, either. But you need your precious form signed, yes?"

The Italian nodded.

"Then come."

"Fine."

o.O.0.O.o

Lovino knew he was close to the field by the screams coming from it and the mass of people gathered there. Soccer was a huge deal at their school, and was one of their best sports. The hallway on the way to gym was littered with a number of soccer trophies from that year dating all the way back to near the founding of the school.

That fact was obvious once he reached the field. Most of the crowd was decked out in a variety of blue and gold, their school colors, and cheering and booing at the top of their lungs. The bleachers were full to the breaking point with students and members of the community, and the overflow was surrounding the field at almost all points.

"This way." Francis directed Lovino to the left. "We saved spots on the bleachers."

They pushed their way through the crowd with much difficulty, but eventually they finagled their way to the bleachers. Sure enough, in the third row sat Gilbert and Matthew alongside an empty space. Behind them were Feliciano and Ludwig, the former one of the most spirited in the crowd and the latter looking as if he was wishing he were anywhere but there at that moment.

When Lovino finally sat himself down comfortably on the harsh metal seat, he looked to the field, scanning the expanse for snippets of Antonio. It wasn't long before he caught sight of the Spaniard in front of a pack of teammates running across the field. He had the ball and was sprinting straight up the center of the field to the goal.

Lovino's breath hitched as he observed Antonio. The senior moved across the field gracefully but with a kind of feral power that sent shivers down Lovino's back and through his extremities. Sweat dripped down Antonio's face as he made his way down the field, running along his jawbone and down his neck before disappearing into his shirt.

Lovino gulped.

But then, just as Antonio seemed ready to shoot the ball into the awaiting goal, he stumbled over the ball. A collective gasp was heard through the crowd on this side of the field as Antonio fell to the ground, the ball rolling into the hands of goalie half-heartedly.

A whistle sounded before the goalie could throw the ball back into play. Antonio got back up, pushing himself off the grass with a defeated look in his emerald eyes. The two teams wandered to the opposite sides of the fields, the ones decked in blue and gold glaring at the ground and cursing anything they could think of.

Antonio followed them, lifting his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face with the bottom of it.

Lovino swallowed again as his chest was revealed. He quickly averted his eyes, staring instead at the livid coach as he yelled at Antonio, eyes flaring and spit flying.

The Spaniard nodded tiredly in response to whatever the coach had said.

"Antonio!" Gilbert yelled down into the field once the coach moved onto the other members of the team.

The senior looked up to his friend, eyes dull. The self-proclaimed Prussian, grinning madly, stood and pointed to where Lovino was seated.

The senior's eyes directed themselves to where Gilbert was pointing. The Italian blushed as Antonio's entire demeanor brightened. His grin matched Gilbert's, though it was more ecstatic than manic, and he waved hugely to Lovino.

In response, Lovino flipped him off, but much to his chagrin, Antonio simply laughed.

Nothing could have ruined his good spirits at that point.

Another whistle sounded, signaling the end of the time out. Antonio positioned himself back on the field with the rest of his teammates, this time with an irreplaceable gleam in his eye.

As soon as the ball was first kicked, Antonio claimed it with a confident steal and ran it down the field. With little competition, he barreled it into the goal. The gold and blue side erupted in cheers and the opposing one glared at the boy.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was back.

The rest of the game went smoothly. By the time the last whistle sounded, the score was 3-1 in favor of Antonio's team. The team gathered together and cheered, their yells reaching Lovino even through the raucous noise of the crowd.

But through all the confusion, emerald eyes reached hazel ones, and alit with such joy it took Lovino's breath away for the millionth time that night.

Never before had he enjoyed soccer so much.

The crowd finally began to thin after a few minutes. The team had retreated to the locker rooms to change, and most of the remaining people were slowly filing to the parking lot and away from the school.

Not Lovino, though. He was roped in with Gilbert and Francis. Feliciano, Ludwig and Matthew retired, claiming homework as an excuse. Lovino wasn't so lucky.

"Don't you want to go congratulate Antonio?" Francis had teased him.

And Lovino, since he really did wish to do so, stayed with them. Though if anyone were to ask the Italian, he would claim the two seniors kidnapped him.

Whatever the case, Lovino found himself waiting outside the locker room, the sounds of clanging and muted conversation reaching him through the wooden door. The only ones left in there were the members of the Bad Touch Trio as far as he could tell. Gilbert and Francis had barged into the locker room unannounced, but Lovino had decided—not because he was afraid of seeing Antonio half-naked, definitely not—to wait for them outside.

A few minutes later, though, rather than the entire trio emerging from the room as the Italian had expected, only Antonio walked out the door.

"Hey, good luck charm~," Antonio greeted as he caught sight of Lovino.

Blushing darkly, Lovino asked, "Where are Francis and Gilbert?"

Antonio smiled. "They went out the back. Something about not wanting to interrupt." The Spaniard captured Lovino in a hug. "I was afraid you weren't coming," he murmured into the freshman's hairline.

Antonio's breath tickled the crown of Lovino's head, sending shivers down his back. "Francis dragged me," Lovino muttered, but the small protest went unacknowledged by the Spaniard.

Finally he pulled back, smiling tenderly at the Italian. The warmth that radiated from Antonio's sunny smile threatened to melt Lovino. His heart pounded against his chest in protest to the tight confines as Antonio grabbed his hand.

Then, suddenly, Lovino's hand wasn't the only thing Antonio captured. Warm lips molded against his, the pressure just enough that he felt it, but not overwhelming. His eyes widened in shock, and he felt his palm grow embarrassingly damp in Antonio's grip.

Not long after, Lovino melted into the feeling, responding the Antonio's gentle touch with a readiness that surprised them both.

A moment later, though, Antonio pulled back.

Lovino opened his eyes, not even realizing he'd closed them in the moment. His heart fluttered pleasantly in his chest and his lips burned from the memory of warm flesh against them.

But Antonio's face was the best of all. His emerald eyes, usually alight with bright, fiery power were now dim with lust and hooded as they started down at Lovino. The tanned cheeks were surprisingly pinked, though they were nothing in comparison to Lovino's, and his lips were parted slightly.

Then it finally hit Lovino what just happened. They'd kissed. Antonio kissed him. Bad, he told himself, that was bad. They shouldn't have done that; they shouldn't have kissed. He didn't want a relationship, not like that.

And yet for each negative thought running through his head there were two positive ones. Antonio had _kissed_ him. That must have meant he liked Lovino somehow, even if it was only blind attraction with no idea of the rotten interior.

"I-I have to go," Lovino stuttered, trying to pull his hand free of Antonio's. The grip on his hand only tightened, refusing to let the Italian free himself.

"Then let me drive you home," Antonio insisted.

Lovino couldn't say no to that smile.

o.O.0.O.o

_(I didn't know the Arabic characters for the lyrics, so if someone does please feel free to tell me somehow….) "After your beauty took me we both changed. If I am still not on your mind, then prove it to me"— "Dayman Fi Baly" by Amr Dieb? (I can't read my handwriting…)_

_Aah, a kiss! I've been meaning to figure one in soon, but, again, couldn't find the right place. Well, guess I did! _

_Some of you already have, but I'm beginning to run out of lyrics. If you have a suggestion for a song or a section of a song that relates to Antonio and Lovino's relationship, or that you just like (I'm always looking for new music!) please feel free to send me a PM or leave a review with suggestions! It can be in any language, but I'd prefer it not be in English. I already have too many of those . . . _

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	14. Lamentoso

_Still away as you are reading this~_

_Disclaimer: Do I wish it were mine? Hell yes. Will it ever be? Not a chance. _

o.O.0.O.o

_**Estoy cansado de siempre lo mismo, la misma historia y quiero cambiar**_

o.O.0.O.o

The air crackled with tension within the small red Honda. Neither boy spoke much, each choosing instead to gaze out the front windshield adamantly.

Lovino's hands were wedged between his thighs and the seat protectively, his shoulders hunched inwards as if in some attempt to retreat inside himself. And, really, it would have been better, easier, to do so, because the outside was scary and awkward and real. Retreating into his mind ensured safety and shelter and hallowed ground upon which only he could tread. No one else could go there; there were no annoying brothers, neglectful grandfathers, or overly affectionate Spaniards seemingly hell bent on ruining his life.

Regardless of his wishes, however, Lovino still found himself trapped sitting beside Antonio, the one who, at once, sent Lovino into a state of euphoria and panic.

"Lovi."

Antonio's voice startled the Italian back into harsh reality. His cheeks darkened when his eyes found Spain's for the first time in the entire duration of the car ride.

"Do you want to go out somewhere again?" Antonio continued. "Like dinner or something?" Green eyes flashed to their right for a fleeting moment before directing themselves back to the road.

"Uh." Lovino gripped the leather seat tighter. "I . . ."

He thought again of earlier. Warm lips flush against his, body melting to body, hearts pounding against one another . . .

"I can't," the Italian finally answered. "I have, um, an essay to write." He lowered his eyes again, cheeks warming dangerously.

Antonio's face fell. "Ah, okay."

Lovino risked glancing across to the Spaniard again. The sight sent his stomach reeling uncomfortably, and his mouth went dry. Antonio's mouth was set in a little down-turned frown, his eyes lacking their usual brightness. The expression was so alien on his face it almost looked forced, the mouth purposely coercing itself into a downturned crescent.

A mouth that had all too recently been pressed against Lovino's own.

High cheekbones sported a delicate blush for what seemed like the millionth time that evening. Lovino cursed himself for being so cowardly. Because, really, what else was he being? He was just too scared to accept the invitation, and to accept the label it implicated.

Cowardice seemed to abound within Lovino. He was too scared to let Antonio close, too scared to go out with him, too scared to embrace the obvious label, and, above all, too scared of the heartache it was all sure to cause. He couldn't see any other end in sight besides that, besides that dead end of hate and despair. Never before had something worked out, so why should he gamble that it did this time? It wasn't as though it would terminate at any other conclusion, especially seeing as it was Lovino the relationship would involve.

Lovino was the problem, was the reason none of whatever _this_ was would work out. It was because of his emptiness and lack of any likeable traits that this star-crossed rapport would no doubt crash in on itself in due time. Once Antonio chiseled his way past the Italian's harsh exterior in search of whatever he seemed to believe was trapped inside he would no doubt encounter the even more caustic insides, the likes of which would send him running for the hills. Or, at least, away from Lovino.

It wasn't Antonio's leaving that scared him, though. Rather, it was the gaping hole he was sure to leave when he did so that sent fear coursing thought the Italian's body. Already he was beginning to rely too heavily on Antonio for his happiness and contentedness, latching onto him like a leech to an unwitting swimmer. It was only a matter of time before he would be noticed and ripped off with disgust, so why hold on any harder than was necessary? The pain would only be that much more when it inevitably came.

Finally the car came to a halting stop in front of the familiar house. Antonio pulled his keys free of the ignition and opened his door, stepping out onto the curb once it was wide enough. Lovino followed him, climbing with what was now a practiced ease over the driver's side and out the door. To the Italian's surprise, Antonio followed him to the door, stopping the two when they reached the front step.

Antonio placed a hand on Lovino's arm when he tried to retreat into the safe haven of a house—though he had never quite thought of it as such before this moment. The Spaniard's hand trailed down the lean arm until it found his hand, intertwining larger, tan fingers in the more delicate, olive-toned ones. Cautiously, the senior leaned in, parting his lips slightly as he did so.

When it became obvious to Lovino what Antonio was attempting to do, his heart picked up a quicker pace, seemingly wanting to rip itself free of his chest. Half of him was tempted to return the gesture, to complete the act the Spaniard was intimating into existence. But then there was the rational side, the one that was screaming at him with all its might to run away, leave while he could still get away with minimal damages.

So he did.

Lovino turned his face away, hazel eyes finding a place on the ground, as Antonio approached. He didn't dare to look back at Antonio, but he was sure that if he did, the look he would encounter would far outweigh the past if the scale were based on deadness.

"See you tomorrow, then, Lovino," Antonio murmured, his voice lacking the usual gusto it always seemed to possess.

The Italian winced at the use of his full name. Antonio hadn't called him Lovino in a long time, not since he had taken an interest in him. And it hurt. It hurt to know suddenly the Spaniard was estranging himself from Lovino in a way—though purposeful on the Italian's part—he was supposed to be reluctant to do.

_It's better this way_, Lovino reassured himself as he watched Antonio retreat down the walkway. Hazel eyes didn't break from the Spaniard's defeated form until the car turned the corner and disappeared from view. He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out the world and the pain for just a moment. But then, just as suddenly as they'd closed he opened them again, staring forward with a new kind of determination shining from within the gold-flecked orbs.

Lovino didn't care that Antonio was now being pushed away. He had meant to do it, and now that it was happening he could get along with his life. That's what his eyes said as he made his way into the house.

But, if you looked closely enough, you could catch the fault in the glimmer, the numbness behind the happiness.

_Antonio_ . . .

o.O.0.O.o

Antonio clasped the steering wheel with an iron grip, taking in the sharp seam biting into his palm with a calmness that was so contrary to what he was feeling inside it was almost unsettling. Though on the outside the Spaniard appeared the epitome of composure, inside his thoughts were spiraling out of control, most of them directed downwards into an abyss of never ending sadness.

Just when Antonio had thought he was making some form of headway with the Italian, it was all thrown back in his face. All of his hard work, all of his teasing and poking and preening for naught.

Lovino still hated him.

But that conclusion didn't quite make sense. If he hated Antonio then why had he responded to the kiss earlier? But then, if he had enjoyed that one he wouldn't have rejected the almost-kiss on the front step, would he?

That seemed sensible. Obviously Lovino hadn't wanted or liked the kiss outside the locker room, so in order to show that to Antonio he denied a second.

You never go back for seconds if the food isn't good.

o.O.0.O.o

Meanwhile, Lovino walked into his kitchen with a disgruntled look.

"Ve~, Lovi, you're home~," Feliciano cheered from his spot by the stove. He brandished a wooden spoon in one hand, and was decked in a frilly light blue apron.

Lovino grunted affirmatively. "Antonio gave me a ride . . . home . . ." he trailed off as he caught sight of who—or _what_—was sitting at their table. His eyes narrowed as they contacted the icy blue ones of a German Lovino never wished to see.

"_Hallo_, Lovino," Ludwig greeted emotionlessly, though his stance became a little more guarded than before when he realized just how serious the elder Italian twin's glare was.

"What the fuck is the potato bastard doing here?" Lovino accused, waving his arm frantically in the general vicinity of the sophomore.

Feliciano's airy smile morphed into a worried frown. "He's here for dinner, ve~," he explained, clutching both hands around his precious spoon in defense. His golden eyes darted nervously between Lovino and Ludwig, as if deciding which side to choose in a fight. Behind him the pot of boiling water spurted, and he quickly used the rebellion as an excuse to turn from the two teens.

"Tch, whatever," Lovino growled, spinning on his heel and marching to his room with a dangerous scowl disfiguring his face. He quickly found himself navigating the hallways towards his room. As soon as he reached it, the door was slammed behind him, his bag discarded on the desk chair, and himself plopped down heavily onto his bed.

This truly was just _wonderful_.

Now not only was he pushing Antonio away from him, but his baby brother was being stolen out from under him by a giant German block of steel. Lovino felt a hole tear itself in his chest, a hollow ache taking the place of whatever he was now lacking.

He was completely alone.

But that was good; it was how he'd wanted it. Lovino's perfect world was one in which he had no one to rely on, no one in whom he was expected to confide. His weaknesses were his alone, not to be shared or exhibited for all to see on a daily basis. That begot humiliation, and humiliation begot awkwardness, which in turn begot unhappiness.

And unhappiness was that which was to be avoided, no?

He had done a splendid job, really. Lovino had never felt more cheerful in his life. Not once had the overwhelming happiness he was experiencing now flowed through his body.

_So damn happy_, Lovino thought wryly as he tasted the salt of the tears running down his face. The ache in his chest expanded until it was so strong Lovino found himself having to hunch over to somehow sate it. Silent sobs racked his body heavily, the spasms echoing painfully in his stomach as the muscles throbbed.

This was perfection immortalized, truly. The human who had no connections to others had no reason to be affected by them. Even as others failed and triumphed, that human would remain himself, undeterred by those around him. Self-sufficiency at its most true.

Lovino had no one. No one at all to call up and vent to, no one to release his frustrations on, to yell at, to be held by, to love.

But it didn't matter, did it? This way whatever rotten disease was tearing him from the inside wouldn't infect others. Because that was what they did to epidemics, isolated the carriers and let them die alone and away from the healthy ones, the superior ones.

It was how nature functioned, too. The ones singled out to be killed and feasted upon by those higher up on the food chain were always the weakest of the herd. If there was nothing deemed higher on the food chain than a human to notice how obviously inferior Lovino was, then he would have to single himself out from the crowd, to deem himself unworthy of living any longer and kill himself off.

Of course, he would never actually perform suicide. He had long since established he was far too cowardly for such a thing, even if life were more painful. But wasn't paining himself what he was best at? Wasn't causing himself personal turmoil the thing he endeavored towards? For why else would he purposefully drive away the ones who could possibly protect him from that predator?

He was being selfish and stupid and inflicting purposefully deadening pain upon himself. And why? Because this pain was less than that which he would suffer were he to embrace the people around him, both literally and figuratively.

Antonio and Feliciano's pained faces flashed into his mind again.

_Wait—but wasn't he hurting those around him by acting as he was? _

The thought was quickly banished from his mind. No, they would be relieved to be free of him, to be free of his overbearing faults and horrible attitude. Already Feliciano had replaced him with some overstuffed potato. Not to mention Antonio already had his friends—however annoying they were—to rely on in tough times.

Neither of those Lovino could have possibly called close to him would be as affected by Lovino's absence as he would be by theirs.

His sobs subsided somewhat, and he was able to take in a few deep breaths.

Lovino's heart still ached, though, and it probably would for a while. When he imagined those warm lips pressed against his own again, fitting so perfectly despite the obvious reality that they weren't meant to be together in such a way, it only worsened.

But it would fade with time.

Lovino only hoped he would be strong enough to wait until it had.

o.O.0.O.o

_I am tired of always the same same, the same story, and I want to change— "Zapatillas" by El Canto Del Loco._

_And just when I thought it was going well . . . __Why do I keep doing this, hm? I'm so mean to them . . . _

_Ah, but on a completely different note: I finally got the results from my audition~! I am officially in GHYWE, A.K.A. the one I was aiming for~! And not only that, BUT NEXT YEAR THEY'RE PLANNING A TOUR DE FRANCE IN JULY! I'm so excited! :D_

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	15. Con Energia

_Sorry. So, so sorry this took so long. I mean, I did say a few weeks, but I literally planned on starting and finishing this within a week after I returned, and finishing writing most of the rest before the summer ended, but I don't think that'll happen now… _

_Oh, and warning, nothing much happens in this one. I'm basically just setting stuff up for_ _later_._ And, as usual, there are, very possibly, many errors grammatically and making-sense-ically, especially in the second half, which is both because I'm still trying to get back into writing, and because I didn't edit the second half much._

_An announcement:_

_I _finally_ wrote the request for who I think is __**Yanelle**__, but I'm not sure… It was a PruAus fic placed during the time when the Austro-Hungary Empire existed…? Eh, well, if you want to read it otherwise, it's posted under the name _The Lone Watchman_ and needs some loving~! :D_

_Disclaimer: No._

_Enjoy~! And thanks to everyone who stuck with me over the nearly one month of absence!_

o.O.0.O.o

_**The very thing you're most afraid of, you've been doing it from the start, breaking your own heart, you're breaking your own heart**_

o.O.0.O.o

"There."

Francis finished the signature with a flourish, setting the black pen down once the last line was drawn. The sound of the writing instrument hitting the table was barely audible over the racket in the cafeteria, and the atmosphere in general was stifling, but, despite it all, Lovino felt a breath of relief leave him. Francis pushed the paper a small way across the lunch table, and Lovino wasted no time in grabbing it when it was within his reach.

Finally. Finally he could have the peace of mind that would accompany handing in his form. And although this peace wouldn't last long, he could at least use that extra bit of brainpower to focus on his three most pressing problems of the moment: the looming audition, his shattered grandfather, and a complicated Antonio.

But, at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to push those exact things from his mind.

"Thanks," Lovino mumbled uncharacteristically in response. He gazed at the signature, impressed by its likeliness to his grandfather's. The ink looped intricately across the dotted line, every letter in the two names seemingly connected perfectly, the style surprisingly feminine for the usually tough Roma.

Francis leaned forward over the grey surface of the round table, chin resting delicately on his hands, and directed violet-blue eyes at the Italian opposite him. "So what happened between you and Antoine?" he questioned.

Lovino felt his cheeks become suddenly warmer, and he cringed inwardly as he thought of what they probably looked like on the outside. "Nothing happened," he replied evenly, not looking up at the Frenchman as he folded the form slowly. "Why would you think that?"

"So I am assuming you have no idea why yesterday evening a very emotional Antonio appeared on my doorstep?" Francis countered.

"I have no idea wh—"

The senior cut Lovino off, "When right before he came to my house, he had been with you?" Usually aloof violet-blue eyes narrowed as Lovino glanced up at the Frenchman, half-folded paper suspended in midair.

The Italian swallowed heavily, hands lowering to rest on the table. "W-what did he say?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Francis leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest and staring down his nose at the Italian. "He went on and on about how he was sure you hated him now, and how he had lost his '_Lovinito_' forever," he explained.

Lovino let his eyes drop from the Frenchman's scrutinizing gaze, instead examining the grey-speckled table as he thought over the words. It was what he had wanted, right? He wanted Antonio to believe that; it had been his goal. And, sure, the guilt was only natural. It wasn't exactly human to hear someone in pain—and for it to be your fault—and not react in that way.

But that wasn't what he was worried about. That was natural; it was only human to repent for those you have hurt in order to make your own life more livable. It was the little part of his brain that wanted to yell out, to scream the truth that sent his stomach churning unsettlingly. _No, I don't hate you, Antonio. I love you, I really do. I'm just scared. Why can't you see that?_

Across from the pensive Italian, Francis examined Lovino's guilt-ridden face, satisfied. Antonio had said more than only that; he had gone on to rant about his feelings to an overwhelmed Francis, about how he was really starting to love Lovino, and just wanted the Italian to realize that he did—that someone did. But the moment wasn't right for him to tell Lovino that. Francis had a plan, and though he was never one to take pleasure from his friends' pain, it was a moral he had to relinquish for the sake of _l'amour_.

"Usually," Francis continued, "I am supportive of my friends' relationships. But I will not stand by and watch as you hurt Antonio." His eyes hardened when Lovino looked up, mouth open to retort indignantly. The Frenchman held up a manicured finger. "Let me finish."

Lovino shut his mouth, clenching his jaw in annoyance. It was none of Francis' business what he decided to do concerning his relationship with Antonio. If it was doomed to meet an untimely end, then so be it. And if it might hurt the two of them a little, at least it would be better than what would inevitably happen were it to crash in on itself further along the road.

"Now," Francis continued, "I know you do have feelings for my dear friend Antonio—do not try to deny it; it is painfully obvious—so why you continue to push him away is a mystery to me. And no," he responded to Lovino's unasked question, "I do not want an explanation." He leaned forward slightly. "I want to make a deal."

"What is it?" Lovino asked, hesitation clear in his voice. It was never a good idea to trust a scheming Frenchman, especially if that Frenchman was Francis.

"Antonio will certainly try to win your affections again," the senior spoke. "I want you to give him a chance. Hear him out, listen to what he has to say. And, this time, actually listen to what your heart has to say, not your head." Francis sighed. "Common sense is the worst enemy of _l'amour_."

"That's it?" Lovino questioned incredulously. That seemed much simpler than he had expected. At least this way he wasn't _really_ being coerced into doing anything more than listening. Though he wasn't too keen on being in that awkward situation, it was better than any number of things he was sure Francis was going to force him into.

"It is not as simple as you think," Francis assured.

Lovino nearly snorted in disbelief. How difficult could it be? The Italian leaned back in his chair, smirking confidently. All he had to do was "listen" to whatever Antonio had to say, the likes of which he was sure would be underwhelming. The Spaniard never had been the most perceptive; surely he hadn't a clue what the Italian wanted to hear.

Even if he had, Lovino was thoroughly convinced the actions he was performing were right for him, that they were what would ultimately ensure both his and Antonio's happiness. He was set in his way of mind; he had always been opinionated, really, and this was merely a spinoff of that rather prominent trait of his.

There wasn't a thing Antonio could say to convince Lovino otherwise.

But, directly across the table from the newly inspired Italian, Francis was just as confident, though for the opposite reason. Within the past weeks, Francis had watched as his Spanish friend mastered plucking at the Italian's nerves, figuring out what caused the most violent of reactions and what had him melting down with a roaring blush on his face. Of course, Francis' advice may have gave him an extra push, but he was thoroughly impressed by his usually laidback friend's effort when it came to Lovino.

Now all he had to do was wait for everything to fall in place.

o.O.0.O.o

"Sorry I'm late."

Lovino looked up from putting his instrument together as Ms. Hedevary shuffled in, looking winded and clutching to her chest a leather briefcase with a multiplicity of papers poking out from seemingly every nook and cranny possible. She wasted no time in powering across the room and throwing her bag down on the conductor's stand, before walking right back towards the exit again.

"Hey," Lovino called as she reached the door. "Hey!"

The band teacher turned, halfway out the door to peer back at her student. "Yes?"

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Gathering an audience," she said in answer, not even flinching at his usual swearing. Before Lovino could ask anymore of the rather helpless response, Ms. Hedevary left, the door clicking closed behind her.

Shaking his head, Lovino finished putting together the last of his instrument. He played a few notes to test the reed, and finding it satisfactory, sat in wait for his long-ago-deemed-crazy teacher to return.

Hazel eyes found themselves staring up at the board and shifting out of focus as his mind drifted away from music. Francis' earlier words played in his mind. It was an odd thing to request, for him to listen. That couldn't be all he was planning; the teen wasn't exactly known for his truthfulness. Anything but, actually, as aloofness seemed to be the most at play a lot of the time with him, though Lovino hadn't a clue about what there was to be aloof.

What was it Francis wasn't telling him?

That trail of thought was cut off a moment later, as Ms. Hedevary reentered the room, this time followed by three mostly unfamiliar men. They were faces Lovino had seen around the school from time to time, but who had remained nameless so far.

Without even pausing to explain or otherwise say anything to her student, Ms. Hedevary pulled three chairs to the front of the room, and gestured for each man to take a seat. When everything was situated, she turned again to Lovino. "What are you waiting for? Play," she instructed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Wha—Play what?" Lovino asked, flabbergasted. That woman was _insane_.

"Your audition piece," Ms. Hedevary deadpanned, eyes disbelieving.

"I'm supposed to play for them?" Lovino gestured to the men sitting before him, the likes of who were simply watching the scene unfold before them, seeming uninterested in the whole ordeal.

"Obviously. How else are you going to practice performing?" Ms. Hedevary crossed her arms. "The audition is in just over a week, and you can't seem to _imagine_ the judges, so I just made some!" She smiled proudly at that, as if her idea were the best thing since bottled water.

Rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the proposal, Lovino readied himself to play. Surely the fake panel of "certified" judges wouldn't create the artificial nerves as Ms. Hedevary was hoping. It was irrational; why would he be timorous of impressing these obviously inattentive—and mostly uneducated, if the man he thought to be a janitor really was just that—men?

As he wet the read, Lovino glanced up under his bangs at the assembled men to see them all looking at him expectantly, and with more consciousness than Lovino had been counting on. The butterflies, which had been before contained, flew free in his stomach, releasing a bout of adrenaline that pounding through his veins unnervingly. He swallowed harshly, hoping to fight down the rising wave of nausea.

Why was he nervous? There wasn't anything on the line there, nothing that could be lost or gained through this "performance." It was embarrassing—humiliating—to be so easily affected by this pressure. Sure, maybe he hadn't been to many an audition in his day, maybe this was even one of his first, but that was no reason to let his nerves play a role, especially not at a _mock_ audition, of all things.

It was irrational, and it was hell of annoying, but that was the point, wasn't it? He had to adjust his playing to match the heightened sense of awareness, and to try and curb the wont to play faster, to rush and therefore stumble over the simplest of phrases.

Lovino took a steadying breath. Then he played.

It was difficult. He started too weakly, playing with terrible air support, thereby prohibiting any possible fluctuation of dynamics while at the same time permitting pitch oscillations of all kinds. Then he breathed too early, cutting the phrase in half. But he did regain some support. He focused his mind on that, trying to further improve on his progress and somehow finish the piece on a much better note than he had begun.

Finally, that last note came, and with it relief. Lovino released his last note and breathed in deeply, tasting sweet air once again as it filled his aching lungs.

The men clapped dutifully, but only moments later Ms. Hedevary ushered them out, following them down the hallway and away from her confused student.

Lovino could only imagine what she was doing at that moment, as he sat, trying to reassess what had gone wrong—or, rather, what hadn't.

When he had only made it to the beginning of the second movement, Ms. Hedevary again burst through the door, this time with two women and a man in her wake. Once they had taken a seat in the three previously unoccupied chairs, she commanded, "Again."

So he played again. And again. And again. And again, until their forty five minutes was up and the last triplet left the room. Lovino sighed in relief as he looked to the clock, picking up his case off the floor to pack away the instrument that was irrefutably as tired as Lovino himself was in that moment.

As the door closed behind the "judges", Ms. Hedevary walked across the room to her winded student, a content smile on her face. "I think that went well," she commented as her heels clicked across the tiled floor.

"If by well you mean fucking tiring, then yes," Lovino replied, "it went _well_." He stood to leave, pausing to pull the form from his back pocket. "Here, before I forget." He handed the paper to Ms. Hedevary, who unfolded it, smiling once she saw what it was.

"Oh, good. Thank you, dear."

Lovino turned to go.

"And good luck next week," she called after him. "We have one more lesson before the big day, so make sure you're practicing!"

Lovino grumbled under his breath in complaint at the request, even though he knew he would have done it anyways if she hadn't asked.

Because what was he without music? He had no other traits or talents of things he was good at besides playing the oboe. It was depressing, really. And once that, too, was taken from him—because everything he loved eventually was, he had learned—he would have nothing left, nothing but an empty soul and a useless body. What would he do then?

He tried not to think about it.

o.O.0.O.o

_Lyrics need no translating yet again, but they are from Kelly Clarkson's "Breaking Your Own Heart" and I just think they really fit. I was browsing through her newest album a couple weeks ago and found this and was like YES so… yeah… _

_Oh God that took a while. And it seriously sucked. Nothing happened! Gah. All of this was basically set up for what I now _finally_ have planned for the final few chapters. That's right, this is coming to an end, and soon. There will be no more than five more, if that, so get ready for the end! It'll be so weird, but I have a few possible plot bunnies for afterwards, so don't fear! I'll probably either put a poll up soon, or figure out which one I get the most inspiration for as this draws to a close. _

_Chibianimefreak out~_


	16. A Bene Placito

_Oh, God. I think you're going to like this chapter (especially OwlinAMinor; I know you've been waiting for this for a while), but just… Oh, God. _

_You know, I'm kind of glad this is almost over. I mean, I'll be sad once it is, but I'm at the point where I'm looking back and seeing everywhere I went wrong, and am really wondering if this was really worth the write. Not to say I'd be happier if I hadn't wrote it, it's just there's a bunch of shit happening in my life now, and a lot of it is changing my opinion of things, including Antonio and Lovino's relationship, so yeah… Expect different philosophies next time around! :D_

_This time, I am putting the song and artist at the beginning, and you'll find out why while reading. So: _Nada Valgo Sin Tu Amor _by _Juanes._ Translation at the end, though. _

o.O.0.O.o

_**Porque nada valgo, porque nada tengo si no tengo lo mejor, tu amor y compañía en mi corazón**_

o.O.0.O.o

It was a decidedly brisk evening for Antonio's plans.

To many that would have been an acceptable reason to simply abandon the ludicrous thought and pursue something different, something, maybe, a fair amount saner. But Antonio often was not considered one of the "many" and wasn't about to start at that moment. He had an unambiguous air about him, one that many would simply call "unique" and leave it as such, but that suited him well.

As such, the mid-Fall weather barely registered with Antonio as he pulled his red car to the curb before the familiar white colonial. He gazed up at it through his foggy window, the house's walls suddenly looking much taller, and the windows much darker than he remembered.

It was now or never, Antonio decided when a shadow flickered behind the curtains of a dimly lit room, one that the Spaniard had recently discovered to be Lovino's. It wasn't as though he was a stalker. He just happened to be unsuspectingly good at interrogation. Either that or Feliciano gave random information away too easily, but Antonio contented himself with believing the former.

With a determined nod, Antonio tore his eyes from the window and instead twisted around the seat to grab his old treasure: a dusty guitar. It was a real beauty, a classic, with its liquid caramel body and a sound like a warm summer's evening.

It also happened to be Antonio's first love.

In the obfuscated night the wood of the beautiful instrument was turned the color of an old New England pier in a snowless winter, when the sky is overcast and the world made of nothing more than a multiplicity of grays and dullness. Even that outlook couldn't dull Antonio's perspective on the evening, though. The muddle of depressing thoughts that had plagued his mind two days earlier had left rather suddenly, leaving in their place a newfound mix of determination and hope, all this thanks to a conversation with Francis.

"You need to tell him how you feel," the Frenchman had advised. "The headstrong, aggressive types do not like to follow the clues to the obvious conclusion. You have to spell it out for him, give him words he cannot doubt."

Easier said than done, certainly. Antonio wasn't afraid to express his feelings, especially not towards those who mattered, but this was Lovino he was talking about. Lovino: the teenager he loved and cherished, his poor, damaged Lovino. The one he wanted to crush in a hug of never ending affection and love just to prove he had someone in this world that was oftentimes too harsh for its own good.

These words counted, they mattered, and that alone was enough to scare Antonio into taking a roundabout method to his confession. He would still tell Lovino how he felt. They just wouldn't exactly be _his_ words.

Guitar in hand, Antonio climbed from the car and began his dutiful walk towards the single lit window. He hoped that meant Lovino was the only one home.

Antonio stepped off the asphalt and into the grass not yet wet with dew, his shoes whispering through the greens as, step by step, he made his way closer to what would either be the best occurrence of the month, or the worst. Antonio persistently believed the former, imagining again how Lovino's mouth had felt formed against his on that fortunate afternoon.

Optimistic as he was, even Antonio's heart began thumping in his chest as he halted a good ten feet from the white-shingled wall. He peered up at the window, craning his neck to see the curtains still drawn. It was also then when he noticed the one issue that had completely slipped his mind: the window was closed.

He shouldn't have expected anything else, really. It _was_ Fall, and it _was_ a rather chilly night, even for mid-October, so why wouldn't Lovino have his window closed to keep the loving caress of the air conditioning heating his skin? But, then again, common sense had never really been Antonio's strong suit.

Panic began to set in, its evil claws gripping Antonio's stomach in an icy hold. What would he do? It was doubtful Lovino would be able to hear him through the glass, especially from the second story.

Then it hit him. Or, well, buzzed him.

Antonio pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket, and, ignoring the text lighting up his screen, typed in the number that had become more than simply familiar in the past weeks. Crossing his free arm across his body to keep out the cold, guitar still in hand, the Spaniard held the phone to his cheek, the warmth from the small device heating his cheek pleasantly as it rang.

Antonio bounced a bit as he waited, the action both meant to preserve what little bit of warmth was still present in his body, and in anxiousness. "Come on, come on…" he whispered as the ringer sang into his ear, each repetition sending his heart beating a bit faster, a bit louder. What if Lovino was sleeping? What if he didn't answer because he was still mad at him?

Thoughts spiraled through his mind at breakneck speed, crashing into every rational idea that tried to pry through the insanity and driving them off, until finally he heard a response:

"_Hello?_"

"Lovino," Antonio let his breathe leave him airily as he heard the familiar accented voice.

"_Why the hell are you calling so damn late, bastard?_" the disembodied—and yet so comforting—voice asked.

"Oh, uh…" It was really that late was it? It had only been about eight when Antonio left his house, carefully creeping into his car, even as he knew his parents weren't actually home. But then, it was probably just Lovino being Lovino. "Open your window."

"_Open my window?_" Lovino questioned incredulously. "_It's fucking freezing out there, idiot! Why the fuck would I—_"

Lovino cut off suddenly, the voice there one moment, then gone the next.

"Lovino? Lovino, are you there?" Antonio questioned worriedly after a moment of anxiety-inducing silence.

"_Fucking hell, I swear if you're actually—_" Lovino grumbled. The sound of heavy footfalls visited Antonio's ear through the phone, then a beep.

He'd hung up.

Before Antonio could move to redial, or even think of redialing, the lit window flew open, and Lovino's angry face peered down into the night. Hazel eyes roamed over the lone Spaniard standing before his window, slight form shaking in the cold, and old guitar clutched across his chest, before fixing themselves on the road in the distance, determinedly looking anywhere but at Antonio.

Regardless, his face brightened. "Hi, Lovi~!" he called up to the Italian.

"The fuck are you doing here, bastard?" Lovino yelled back.

"Oh, right." Antonio scrambled to shuffle his guitar strap over his head, and placed the instrument properly. His fingers found the homey strings and ran across them silently, loving the feel of the springy metal as they rubbed the calluses they themselves had made.

"See, Lovi?" the Spaniard shouted. "You're not the only one who's good with music." And before Lovino could respond, he began playing.

The music embraced him, its airiness and lightness flowing through him and making him feel as though he could simply float up to Lovino's window without a care in the world.

_Cuando el tiempo pasa_

_Y nos hacemos viejos_

_Nos empieza a parecer_

_Que pesan más los daños_

_Que los mismos años_

_Al final_

The words rolled smoothly off his tongue, feeling as though they were more than simply words, as though they were an embodiment of all his feelings for the silent Italian above him. The music was lovely, the tune beautiful, but it was the sentiment behind it that gave it life, that made it flow upwards and to the subject of the song, the one he hoped would understand the what he was trying to say, to convince him of.

_Por eso yo quiero que mis años pasen_

_Junto a ti, mi amor eterno_

_Junto a mi familia, junto a mis amigos, y mi voz_

_Porque nada valgo_

_Porque nada tengo si no tengo lo mejor_

_Tu amor y compañía en mi corazón_

Antonio spared a glance up at Lovino as he took a steadying breath. His scowl and stiffness: Antonio was trying to decide if it was reassuring.

_Y es que vale más_

_Un año tardío que un siglo vacío amor_

_Y es que vale más_

_Tener bien llenito el corazón_

_Por eso yo quiero que en mi mente siempre_

_Tu cariño este bien fuerte_

_Aunque estemos lejos o aunque estemos cerca del final_

_Porque nada valgo_

_Porque nada tengo si no tengo lo mejor_

_Tu amor y compañía en mi corazón_

As the chorus approached, Antonio's mind inched farther and farther away. He began to lose himself to the melody, to the feeling of his voice escaping from his throat in what really was such a primal way, but that rang with a splendor almost otherworldly. Or so it felt to him, at least.

_Ven amor_

_Me siento débil cuando estoy sin ti_

_Y me hago fuerte cuando estás aquí_

_Sin ti yo ya no sé que es vivir_

_Mi vida es un túnel sin tu luz_

_Quiero pasar más tiempo junto a ti_

_Recuperar las noches que perdí_

_Vencer el miedo inmenso de morir_

_Y ser eterno junto a ti_

Antonio continued the rest of the song, the feelings not dying down, and Lovino not becoming any more animate than he had been at the start. The last lines trickled out of his mouth as melodically as the rest, the words highlighting and illuminating the thoughts in his head at that moment.

_Porque nada valgo_

_Porque nada tengo, si no tengo lo mejor_

_Tu amor y compañía en mi corazón_

Because, really, without Lovino Antonio _was_ worth nothing. The Italian had simply become such a huge part of his life, of his thought processes, in the past weeks that to cut off Lovino's involvement so suddenly would spin Antonio for a loop. Not even a small loop like on a mini golf course, but the kind you find on the giant roller coasters at Six Flags.

So, when Antonio strummed the last note on his guitar, the last of the vibrations fading into the night, he looked up to the window, the light from it shining like a lighthouse to his lost feelings, directing the Spaniard back to his home, to Lovino. As expected, said Italian was still there, half leaning out his window, arms resting on the sill and scowl morphing his face that to anyone else would be a turn-off, but to Antonio was as inviting as a home cooked meal.

Lovino remained silent, the lack of noise ringing in Antonio's ears, stinging his eardrums like a bee. As the euphoria from the song wore off, the chill of the autumn evening began to set in again, the darkness becoming a bit thicker.

Then, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Lovino spoke, "Y-you look frozen, i-idiot…" The words barely reached Antonio's ears, but he heard it with a resounding clarity. "Get inside before you get fucking hypothermia or something." Then the Italian disappeared from the window, the drapes whispering shut behind him

Scarcely daring to smile, Antonio followed Lovino's orders, trekking to the front. Pushing the solid door open, Antonio stepped into the Vargas foyer for the second time. To think that only just over a month ago he had visited this exact place, but for such a completely different reason.

Back then he had been swooning over the younger of the twins, the one he'd thought was perfect and cute and sweet and just such a darling he couldn't resist. That kind of perfection, though, there was no depth to it. There was nothing to grasp onto, nothing new to learn, no layers to peel back. It was, for lack of a more sensitive term, boring.

Lovino.

Lovino was different. Lovino _was_ perfect and cute and sweet and darling, but it was all hidden, hidden behind an exterior marred by abandonment and a world too abrasive for its own good. But it was that adventure, that perfect journey of discovering exactly what Lovino was really thinking that kept Antonio on his feet. Sure, sometimes—read: most of the time—he might get it wrong, or read the signs erroneously.

The greatest part about that, though, was that when he did, rather than torture Antonio more, Lovino would help him in his own ways. A lot of the times that would just mean getting frustrated and yelling the answer, or some less encrypted version of it, at the Spaniard, but it was at least an acknowledgement of his trying.

It was something.

The door closed solidly behind Antonio, and he walked farther in, turning into the living room. Emerald eyes roamed the too-white furniture as if for the first time. The first time he had been there, he hadn't realized just how impersonal the house really was, all white and harsh corners and no consideration for comfort. No pictures decorated the side tables, and the only thing of note on the mantel of the fireplace was a dusty vase.

"Hey."

Antonio looked up to the sound of the voice, his eyes meeting an unreadable Lovino standing at the base of the staircase. The Italian was still steadfastly refusing to look directly at his upperclassman, hazel eyes instead directed to the mantel.

"Hey," Antonio replied, smiling in what he hoped was a loving way.

Lovino made no move to speak again, or to direct Antonio further within the house.

"Want to, uh, sit?" Antonio supplied after a moment, gesturing to the couch.

Lovino blinked, and jerked slightly as though the Spaniard had surprised him. "Yeah," he agreed, but made no move to do so.

Deciding he should probably take the initiative if he ever wanted to get anywhere that night, Antonio rounded the stiff couch and took a seat, face turning upwards to meet Lovino's when he was comfortable. "Coming?"

Mechanically, Lovino followed suit and lowered himself to the couch next to Antonio, just far enough away that they weren't touching. He gazed doggedly at his knees, upon which rested delicate hands, hands that were twining themselves in and out of knots haphazardly.

"Look," Lovino said resolutely, his voice shaking with emotion, "I don't know what delusion you have of—of _us_." There was a tremor in his voice as he said _us_. "But it's not going to happen, so just fuck off. Please." The last part was added almost as an afterthought, desperate and so uncharacteristic Antonio almost listened to him right there and left.

But that wasn't why he was there.

"I would," Antonio admitted, ignoring the hitch in Lovino's breathing as he scooted across the couch so their thighs were touching, "but I have this problem." He rested a hand on the shoulder of Lovino's opposite from him. "You see, you've stolen my heart, and I can't seem to get it back."

Lovino fell back into Antonio's embrace almost shell-shockedly, letting the Spaniard's hand rub soothing circles into the back of his neck.

"So I guess that just means I'll have to stay awhile." He chuckled lightly. "Until you give it back, at least." Antonio leaned closer to Lovino, so his breath was tickling the Italian's steadily reddening cheek. "But I'll tell you a secret." He pulled Lovino's chin so he was facing him. "I don't want you to."

Antonio went to lean forward to cover the last few inches between his face and the Italian's, but Lovino did it for him, and suddenly their lips met for the second time.

The warmth was overwhelming, so much so that Antonio was almost convinced he would stay that way forever, just him and Lovino locked in a loving kiss. The first one stayed chaste, and when they finally broke for air, Antonio whispered an airy, "I love you," before meeting Lovino halfway for another one.

One of Lovino's hands rested on the back of Antonio's neck, fingers twining up to meet chocolate curls, the other gripping onto the couch so he wouldn't fall over in the awkwardly twisted position.

After another moment or two of silent embrace, the two teens broke apart. Neither dared to speak, lest they break the harmonious moment and send them both crashing back to Earth. Antonio stroked Lovino's hair absentmindedly, twirling the auburn locks between his fingers and relishing in the velvety strands.

The Italian was shaking, his wide eyes staring at a random spot near Antonio's collarbone, and his perpetual silence was beginning to worry the Spaniard. "Lovi?" he questioned, resting a hand on the Italian's red cheek.

"I-I don't understand," Lovino whispered into Antonio's chest, his voice raspy, "why you l-love me."

"Hey." Antonio nudged at Lovino's chin, trying to get him to look him in the face. "Hey," he said a bit more forcefully, yanking gently again, this time successfully. Lovino's watery eyes met Antonio's endless ones, staring expectantly, but with a hopelessness, as if he were waiting for inevitable disappointment.

"Listen," Antonio asserted, "you are amazing, beautiful, funny, kind, and so unbelievably _lovable_ that I can't believe I get to have you. _You_, Lovino." Antonio poked the Italian in the chest. "I love _you_."

Lovino was still unbelieving, Antonio could tell. But he knew it would take time, lots of time, for the Italian to start believing the words, too, to start actually thinking Antonio could be correct. For now he would have to simply work on that, work on the confidence and make sure he never stopped showing that he truly loved Lovino, because if he ever stopped, it would destroy all he had steadily been building towards.

It would destroy Lovino, and that Antonio couldn't bear to see.

Lovino's eyes broke off of Antonio's again, looking back to the mantel. Antonio followed his gaze, eyes landing on the lonely vase sitting in the center of the white shelf.

The Spaniard scowled uncharacteristically, standing suddenly, and nearly knocking Lovino over in the process. He stalked around the couch and out the door, leaving the shell-shocked Italian behind him. Antonio jumped to the left of the front step, hopping into the frozen packed earth of the garden. There he grabbed the stalks of the last living flowers of the season, their fortitude to stay alive through the colder weather impressing the Spaniard who was now ending their slow death more quickly. He yanked sideways harshly, breaking the stems with a solid crack before climbing back into the house.

Lovino was still on the couch when he returned, the slam of the door behind him echoing in the room, the copious room with too little softness to properly muffle the harsh sound. Antonio strode back around the couch and to the mantel, placing what he could now see as red and yellow tulips in the before empty vase.

Antonio stood back to admire the newfound life in the room. The colors transformed the scene before him, turning the before inanimate wall into a warmer feature, its likeliness not scaring off all lovers of gentleness. Sure, it could still use some work; it was still white and harsh and plain, but now it had _something_.

"There." Antonio nodded contentedly at his handy-work, drifting backwards to plop on the couch. He glanced across to Lovino, ready to continue in his consolation now that the previous distraction was erased.

Instead of meeting the same deadened expression as before, he was surprised to see Lovino staring at the vase again. Only, this time he wasn't frowning emotionlessly, but rather a watery smile was pulling up at his lips, and his eyes shone with more than just light.

"B-bastard." Lovino shifted so he was again facing Antonio, letting his head drop onto the Spaniard's shoulder. "Goddamn it, you stupid, stupid idiot."

Antonio could feel the wetness through his shirt where Lovino's head rested.

"I fucking love you, too."

And that was enough for Antonio.

o.O.0.O.o

_Um, since I'm too lazy to go and translate the entire song right here, here is a lovely link for the translation: lyricstranslate en/ nada-valgo-sin-tu-amor-im-worth- nothing-without-your-love. html_

_From what I can tell, it's correct so…_

_And since I didn't do this at the top: Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. _

_Anyone else notice that my disclaimers have been getting oddly short lately…?_


	17. Teneramente

_Okay I seriously am sorry for the wait. I was so good until the summer! Ugh. I told myself I would post before school started, and here I am two weeks into school and finally posting the chapter that's been half done for longer than that. I just couldn't write the second part. For some reason the first part came easily… _

_Whatever, I'm here now, so here you go. I had an idea of how to end it originally, but it seemed so utterly unexciting and clichéd (as in more so than usual for me) I just had to add some kind of twist. An obscenely obvious one, but still one nonetheless. And maybe I kind of ish really want to get to twenty chapters, even if I am dragging it a little…_

_Last bit of the note before the story; I promise. Holy shit I got over 200 reviews! :D I love you guys, seriously. Part of the reason I didn't post was because I had a huge lapse of inspiration for Hetalia, but then I looked back and saw that I had 221 fucking reviews and I nearly fainted. So yeah. There. I was going to do a reward for the 200__th__, but my good friend OwlinAMinor did the 200__th__ (of course) and as such I'm not going to do it… But I will probably do one for 250, since I didn't do 50 (which was also OwlinAMinor oddly enough) or 100 or 150 or 200. Stingy author is stingy. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but you should know that by now. _

o.O.0.O.o

_**I won't give up on us, even if the skies get rough. I'm giving you all my love. I'm still looking up**_

o.O.0.O.o

Roma Vargas was, for perhaps one of the first times in his life, at a loss for what to do.

He had only a day left here, in this city near the mountains. Soon was Lovino's audition, and although he hadn't signed the sheet, Roma was certain his grandchild had pursued the challenge, especially with his resentment of it. That child never relinquished a chance at defying him, truly. He was determined to see it; it was his one chance to actually witness his grandson performing what Roma believed him to be born to do. The boy had somehow convinced himself that his grandfather despised his talent, that he wished it away like a bad dream. But really it was quite the opposite: he loved that Lovino had found something to delight in where previously he had nothing. It relieved the guilt somewhat, even though he knew it to be a selfish reason. More than that, though, he knew Lovino loved it, and how could Roma hate something his grandson loved?

Roma's body collapsed lifelessly onto the stiff hotel bed, folding in on itself like a ragdoll when placed without support. One hand rested listlessly on his knee as the other kneaded his forehead, as if somehow that would settle the thoughts unwilling to do so hidden behind it.

It didn't help—not that he had expected differently—but he continued, thinking that, at least, it would distract him from the sickly beautiful panorama view displayed before him courtesy of the floor to ceiling window so many tourists found extraordinary. It was so odd how opposing the view with its false hopes and tellings of land that stretched as far as the eye could see was, the horizon framed by white-capped mountains, while he himself was trapped in his own mind, trapped in a dead-end search.

Roma was following them, following his last hope at happiness with his grandchildren. He thought that, maybe, if they were to come back, to return home and complete the family picture as it was meant to be, everything would just fall in place, as opposed to falling apart like it seemed to be doing at the moment.

He could feel his grandchildren slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, dancing their way to the ground, only to be swept up by the flowing tides and taken away from the grandfather who had cared for them as long as either child could truly remember.

They had their own ways of going about it, of course. Feliciano darted away flippantly, eagerly washing upon each new shoreline as he drifted by on the tides, each more and more exciting and new than the previous. Roma worried for the younger of the two, the innocent child who wandered blindly into things without inhibitions or knowledge of what lay beyond. But he tended to attract the protective types, the ones who would certainly have their handfuls, but would guide the frivolous Italian with a strong hand and a stern word of advice. They couldn't help but be drawn to him, like moths to a light; they basked in his cheeriness and warmed their often-chilly hands in his sun of a life. They helped to settle Roma's mind somewhat—not completely, but enough.

It was Lovino who truly sent Roma's gut twisting in grandfatherly agony. He worried greatly for this child, this child without the softness love offered the world. Lovino couldn't see the light in his surroundings, and instead stumbled through life blindly, but with such clear vision it was chilling what he must have seen in his few years. Roma could only imagine the harshness of a world lacking love and kindness, a world he himself had helped to create for the child.

Roma sighed harshly and lifted his head to gaze out the window. It was a beautiful city, very scenic, very little-village-seeming, even with its tall buildings and fame in banking—a profession often associated with a cold personality. But this city of Bern nestled beside the protective Alps lacked those whom Roma was searching for, and that was all he could see in it: emptiness.

He could see it in the child, too, the emptiness. It was evident, really, almost hard to ignore. _Though I've done a great job of it_, Roma thought wryly, offering a dry, humorless smile.

Roma really did love the boy; there was no doubt in his mind. It was just, there was something—or maybe it was everything—about him that rubbed him the wrong way, that brought out the worst in him. He didn't mean to be harsh with Lovino, but it always came out that way. Somehow his words always got twisted in his throat and came out more callous than he had ever meant them to.

But even as he wished it weren't the case, he knew why. Roma knew exactly the reason why whenever he saw Lovino's face, whenever he heard the boy talk, he felt an indescribable annoyance and borderline fury.

It was his face, which was almost a horrible thing to say, except he didn't mean it in any way that insinuated an insult. His face was what damned Lovino in Roma's eyes, his face that so resembled the son he'd never appreciated, and the son who'd known that since the day he was born.

When Roma still knew his son—really knew him—they had never gotten along, not even when he was very young, not even when his wife was alive. It was a rocky relationship, and always had been. They never saw eye to eye; both were simply too opinionated, too obstinate to deal with the other in any rational fashion.

Lovino was opinionated in his own way, too, but not in the same way as his father. While the father would never tell you directly he disagreed, and would instead reveal it slowly and cryptically in little hints and actions of debauchery, Lovino wouldn't hesitate to yell in your face. It was something Roma had always liked about the boy, oddly enough. At least there was no complicated tango or encrypted treasure hunt to follow. Stating your opinion is a hard thing to do, and Lovino excelled at it, even if it was only the negative side of things he showed. Now, when it came to his true opinions of things, things he was ashamed of, he could rival his father in obscurity.

Regardless, Roma didn't hate Lovino—no matter what the boy seemed to think or feel himself. It was quite the opposite, really. The older of the twins may have believed himself to be undermined by his brother, that bubbly, cute brother of his who seemed to naturally attract the spotlight. But it wasn't the truth: Roma loved the two of them equally.

Roma was a lot like Lovino in this way: he wasn't exactly the greatest at expressing himself when it counted. Certainly that was why Lovino would have often believed Roma to be a different man when faced with him. Around Feliciano he was his own bubbly self, carefree and loving and even, at times, a bit airheaded. Around Lovino he was more irritable, more likely to be sporting a scowl than a smile, and overall just not the grandfather he was supposed to be. In that manner he had failed.

Roma had always found adapting the personality of the one he was talking with to be his go-to confrontation method. As such, when confronting Feliciano he would quickly adapt the fun-loving grandfather act. When confronting the moody Lovino, he would do the opposite.

It was Roma's fault, all of it. Even their parents couldn't be blamed as much as he, for when someone isn't there, how can they affect those who are? It was all clear in his mind, crystal, what he needed to do. It was a difficult journey he was taking, trekking across continents from one city to the next, and searching for people who didn't want to be found.

But it was the least Roma could do to bring them home; it was his last make-up gift to the two most cherished people in his life.

It was his last hope.

o.O.0.O.o

The next week passed in a blur for Lovino. Nothing made sense, nothing registered in his flustered brain. People seemed to dart in and out of his vision like dragonflies, constantly moving and flitting around too quickly to process.

All except one, that is: Antonio. Antonio stayed a constant in his life for the week, even as everything around him spun, threatening to knock the Italian off his feet and into some facsimile of an abyss, Antonio held him down like a paperweight, no matter how lame the simile.

Now, the two of them weren't constantly together—no, that would be a bit creepy, like Twilight creepy—but rather Antonio was recurrently appearing in his mind: his smile, the feeling of his arms around him, of his mouth on his, and his eyes. Mostly his eyes, shining like beacons and guiding Lovino forward, the light at the end of his tunnel of a week.

Those eyes guided him onwards through his week, allowing him to get through it all and somehow emerge at the end, the end being only a few days before his audition. It loomed over him, sending the butterflies flittering through his stomach and the beginnings of the nervous adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Lovino tried to push it to the side for the moment, and instead focus on the last few minutes of class he had that day. He tried in vain to concentrate on the droning teacher before him, but found it to be a hopeless case as he felt his mind drift again to the plethora of things weighing on his shoulders. When he felt a buzz in his pocket, he resigned himself to zoning out for the remainder of the lesson, his hands itching to reach into his pants and see the text.

Not for the first time Lovino despised the teacher for moving him to the front of the class with claims of Lovino's noncompliance with learning. But who could blame him when he had a dreadfully attractive Spaniard trying to occupy his mind rather than the swimming biological differences between alpha helix structures and beta-pleated sheets in proteins? Not that Antonio was anywhere near dreadfully attractive; it just helped to exaggerate when making up excuses.

Lovino could feel the phone heavy in his pocket as the last seconds ticked by on the clock and the bell finally sounded through the class. A collective relieved sigh was released from the breasts of all those present in the classroom—and doubtless countless others across the school—as the universal signal of freedom released them from the sure hell that was school. Lovino was no exception, and joined them in the shuffle of bags being lifted onto shoulders and papers being shoved halfheartedly into overflowing folders; no one paid heed to the teachers desperate cries concerning the night's homework.

The Italian followed the flow of students down the hallway, pulling out his phone from where it weighed down his pant leg and glancing at the screen. When he read the name listed there, he couldn't help the small flutter that attacked his stomach, and eagerly he opened the message.

**Sent at 2:26**

_Meet me outside by the oak tree after school~ :D_

Idiot. Truly there was no other term so suited to the bastard than that simple five-letter word, the word that conveyed so much about him, and so much about Lovino's feelings for him, no matter what he said.

**Sent at 2:34**

_Fine_

With an inward eye roll, Lovino shoved the phone in his pocket and directed himself towards his locker and, eventually to the aforementioned tree. Before long he was walking out the glass-plated doors and into the I-forgot-there-was-no-air-conditioning-outside-shit-it-was-cold late fall air. The leaves of the giant tree he was aiming himself for were already half-gone, and those left behind were long past the beauty and color of fall and were instead turning a sickly red-brown color. Lovino couldn't understand why the tree hadn't long since shaken off the ugly leaves; if they were so unattractive why keep them around?

But his business wasn't with the leaves. Rather the person standing underneath them and waving animatedly at the steadily approaching Italian was with whom Lovino was concerned, so he switched his focus from contemplating the existence of ugly leaves to determinedly keeping the smile that wanted to inch across his face from doing just that.

Not a moment later Lovino reached the top of the hill and, consequently, the tree and Spaniard standing atop it. Then he wasn't concerned with keeping the smile away, for it was quite physically impossible for it to form at that moment. Instead he was tastings someone else's smile. Someone who really should learn a better greeting, damn it, because Lovino certainly wasn't enjoying the one he had given at that moment.

Antonio pulled back after only a moment and warmth was replaced once again by dry, chilly air. At least Antonio had the damn scarf to help. All Lovino had was a flimsy sweater. Though he supposed the Spaniard's hand holding his own did help. A little.

"So what'd you call me out here in the cold for, bastard?" Lovino asked, hoping beyond all hope that Antonio would assume the pinking of his cheeks was from the cold and not embarrassment.

Antonio pouted. "I'm not allowed to have Lovi-time?"

"No," Lovino deadpanned. "There had better be some reason for me to be freezing my ass off out here or I'm leaving." To demonstrate, he turned to walk off.

Antonio's pout deepened, and his grip tightened on Lovino's hand, stopping him from retreating any farther. "No," he whined, "don't leave!"

Lovino scowled. "Then why?"

"Ah, well, two reasons, actually," Antonio corrected. "I wanted to walk home with you," he explained, "and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to the beach on Saturday. Uh, and Sunday."

Lovino stared up at Antonio disbelievingly. "The beach. In the middle of the fall. Are you crazy? Idiot, you'll turn into a fucking ice cube!"

Antonio laughed, holding up a hand to calm the vexed Italian. "No, I mean my family has a house by the beach. We're staying for the weekend, and I was wondering if you wanted to come." He gave the hesitant Lovino pleading eyes. "_Por favor_, Lovi, it'll be horrible if I don't have someone!"

"And your parents are okay with you bringing you boyfriend with you _overnight_?" Lovino questioned, breaking his eyes away from Antonio's face. He wasn't even sure he was okay with that.

Antonio's face fell. "W-well the thing is… they don't exactly know I'm dating anyone. Or that that anyone is a boy. Or that I'd even date a boy in the first place." He hurriedly continued at Lovino's incredulous look, "But it's not a problem. They never actually end up going. I can't remember the last time they visited the house."

Lovino's head was reeling, and he took a step back. "So let me get this straight. You're inviting me to your beach house with a family who won't actually be there in the winter, meaning there won't even really be any point to the beach."

Antonio nodded.

"It'll be us." Lovino gestured to the two of them. "Alone. In a house hours away. For the whole weekend."

He nodded again. "Us and my two cousins, actually," he elaborated. "Whenever my parents don't go—which means always—they get sent too so I'm not alone. Which they'll think I am because they won't know you're going."

"I haven't said I was going yet!" Lovino protested, mostly just for the sake of protesting. It was a tempting prospect for him to spend the whole weekend without any distractions or troubles. Unless you counted Antonio as trouble, which he'd might as well do.

But then the downside—as there always was one, Lovino had come to learn—hit him. He'd be practically alone with Antonio for the entirety of a weekend, which included _nights_. Everything in Lovino was telling him it was a bad idea, that nothing good could come from it, that Antonio was seventeen and he was only fourteen, and that really it was a bad idea they were even together in the first place, let alone in the sense Antonio wanted them to be.

Antonio must have seen the hesitance in his face, or otherwise known Lovino was on shaky ground with the whole situation, for he squeezed the hand he still held in his own and smiled at Lovino like the sun he was. "You don't have to decide right now," he comforted. "But I really would like you to come. I never get to spend any time with you!" He pouted again, this time more legitimately.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll think about it," Lovino acquiesced, turning his face to hide the blush he was sheltering. He tugged lightly on Antonio's hand. "Come on, let's go home already. I'm frozen through 'cause of all your rambling."

"Aw~. Does that mean I get to stay for dinner again?"

Lovino scoffed. "You wish, bastard."

Antonio responded in a whiny complaint, and Lovino replied in kind with a sharp jab to the Spaniard's side as they left for the path leading to the Italian's home. The prospect of the weekend trip was brightening Lovino's mood, and his mind couldn't help wandering off—without his consent of course—to pictures of the two of them cuddling and watching the rolling waves hit the sandy beaches, no pestering brothers, strict grandfathers, or annoying friends there to ruin the moment.

It seemed perfect, and almost reachable as the two drifted down the road, hand in hand, and allowing a soft banter to pass between the two of them. Despite it all, though, Lovino couldn't push aside the feeling he was forgetting something, something important.

o.O.0.O.o

_Lyrics from Jason Mraz's "I Won't Give Up". Since somehow I seriously fucked up the link to the translation on the last chapter, here is the translation from the starting lyrics, not the whole song: _

_Because I am worth nothing, because I have nothing if I don't have the best, your love and company in my heart. _

_Yeah, cheesy. Whatever. I like it. _

_And I sincerely apologize to everyone who gave me lyrics! I probably won't get to everyone's lyrics in the short time I have left, so if you don't see yours used, please don't be sad! I love you all equally 3_

_I also apologize for any and all grammatical errors, seeing as I have barely read over the latter half of this. The first half should be good, though. I hope. _

_Chibianimefreak out~_


End file.
